A Wolf at the Door
by Zeitgeist84
Summary: Speculative Season 2, will include Season 1 spoilers, obviously. Three years after the events of TWAU, things have settled somewhat in Fabletown. A slow year for Sheriff Bigby Wolf is suddenly upended when a murder takes him into the underworld of espionage and the ever encroaching terror that awaits in the Homelands.
1. Prologue: The First and Last

Summary: Post-TWAU Season 1 and Pre-Fables. Three years after the Crooked Man incident, things have returned to something resembling normalcy in Fabletown. Glamours are still overpriced, Snow White is still laden with demands of a restless public (even with help from the newly appointed Boy Blue), and Bigby Wolf still smokes like a Bristol chimney. Frustrated by a lack of action, Bigby gets his wish for more chaos when Fabletown comes to him with a case only he can solve.

Disclaimer: The Wolf Among Us and Fables belong to Telltale Games, Bill Willingham, Vertigo, DC, and a whole host of other people and factions that I simply am nowhere near cool or talented enough to be a part of.

* * *

**The Wolf Among Us**

Season 2: A Wolf at the Door  
Prologue: The First and Last

* * *

October, 1986

* * *

The luminous, too-large eyes of Frau Totenkinder peered down through thick spectacles over her nose at the unresponsive man.

Perhaps a younger woman might have thought it a touch rude, however Totenkinder had long since grown tired of social niceties and the concept of politeness. And, the old witch surmised, the man before her may have spent all his politeness as well over the past millennium. He snored, as was expected of his kind, and he mumbled in his sleep, usually indecipherable gibberish to the untrained ear, but Totenkinder was never surprised to hear Bigby Wolf prattle on about Snow White, even in his deepest slumber.

She often took pity on The Big Bad Wolf, even as poorly behaved as the mutt was, because outsiders such as themselves had to stick together. Certainly, the pardon had kept the other Fables of Fabletown from enacting swift vengeance for the crimes they had committed in the Homelands, but few ever saw Frau Totenkinder as anything but the witch that baked children and Bigby Wolf as anything but a flea-ridden dog with a predilection for huffing and puffing.

Tonight was no different. It wasn't often that the wolf got sleep, cramped as he was in that human skin, but Totenkinder thought he might derive some more comfort from his own apartment. With that in mind, she primly tapped her cane thrice against Bigby's office desk.

He breathed out slowly. "You didn't have to do that. I already knew you were here," a deep baritone, quintessentially Bigby Wolf, rumbled from his throat.

Totenkinder merely fixed the Wolf with a cryptic smile. "So you were."

Bigby lifted up his head and blinked at the witch. "I thought you'd be on the thirteenth floor, Frau Totenkinder."

"Nonsense. Not at this time, I'm afraid. I have reports on the Stolen Glamours you brought back; all of them are restocked and accounted for."

"Thanks," he said, continuing this ridiculous trend of his to be as nonverbal as possible. To this day, Frau Totenkinder firmly believed Bigby was the most absurdly unsocial man she had ever met.

Still, he was there when he needed to be, and Fabletown could depend on him, whether they liked him or not.

"I should advise you to get some rest in your own home," the witch said. "But first, I've been instructed to tell you to report to the Office. Snow White wishes to see you."

"Snow? What about?"

"You'll have to ask her personally. I'm not in the know of such things, young man."

"Uh, right. Tell her I'll be there in a minute," Bigby replied at the nod of the witch, who closed the door and went about her way.

Once sure she was gone, the Big Bad Wolf stood and stretched his hindleg—or, just his _legs_ now. Even after all this time pretending to be one, Bigby still forgot he was mimicking a human from time-to-time. Sometimes, even as he sat in a chair and enjoyed the New York Times with opposable thumbs, which was the only real benefit among a sea of negatives in being human to him, Bigby forgot he had hands instead of paws, and cheeks and noses instead of a snout.

Oh, what he wouldn't give for a newspaper right now. And a smoke. And a double serving of bourbon.

But, duty called, and Bigby was certain that Snow had a no-tolerance policy for drunkards, so he left his tiny Sheriff's office in the corner of the Woodlands Luxury apartments, and stalked down the hallway to the Business Office, stopping only to wreathe himself in the pungent smoke of a cigarette. It did well to be prepared against Snow White's perfume, a scent that had long bedazzled the wolf, when he was going to visit her. Thankfully it was late, so Bigby didn't have to push through crowds of unhappy, unsatisfied citizens just to have a conversation with the Deputy Mayor.

He found her hunched over her desk (once belonging to a now-missing Ichabod Crane), constantly and unerringly at work. It almost brought a smile to the old cynic's face, to see a woman so tirelessly devoted to her work.

"Snow?" Bigby called up, causing Snow's ears to prick up and move her head at the right moment so their eyes connected, her mouth set in an odd expression Bigby identified with the newly-installed Deputy Mayor: he often couldn't tell if she was frowning or trying not to smile.

"Mr. Wolf," she greeted neutrally. Bigby surreptitiously sniffed the air around him, trying to get a read on Snow's feelings from her scent. Even under the smoke, Bigby could smell her, it was just more manageable than it would be without. She wasn't sad, there was no mournful quality about the flowery scent he attributed to her, though the lonely quality of it remained undiminished.

Three years of heavy work for her and light work for him had separated the two once more, barring the occasional fight down at the Trip-Trap or their mutual amusement at being the only Fables in the community to attend the Remembrance Day ball alone.

"Totenkinder told me you wanted to talk about something," Bigby said, folding his arms.

"We've got a call from Holly over at the Trip-Trap," Snow replied and released a long-suffering sigh.

Bigby scoffed in annoyance. "What else is new? Is it Gren and Woody again?"

"Yeah, unfortunately," Snow said, pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance. "I don't know why those two insist on going to that bar every night if all they're going to do is resort to blows every other week."

"Be glad it's every other week, now. Remember when we were going in there on the daily to break up a fight between those two morons?"

"Thanks Sheriff, you know just how to make me count my blessings," the raven-haired woman joked as she stood up and smoothed over her typical business suit and skirt. "Do you need company?"

"Are you asking or ordering?" Deadpanned the wolf.

"Ordering."

"Ah," he mused. "Got a little bit of cabin fever?"

"Oh, I'm fucking sick of this place," moaned Snow, and that was when Bigby realized just how serious she was. Snow wasn't studiously averse to swearing, but she avoided it where she could; if she dropped one so casually, the Business Office was indeed driving her insane. "I've been cooped inside that office for three days. I've slept and took meals in there and people still keep coming. I just need a ten-minute walk, a cab ride, _something_."

"Alright, alright, no need to convince me. Just let me get back to the office and grab my coat; it's freezing out there."

"I'll be here," Snow replied, smoothing out her blazer and skirt once more before settling back down into her chair. Bigby took a drag and silently observed her for a moment longer.

Raven hair, blue eyes, porcelain skin. Classically beautiful. The type of woman renaissance artist might have painted if Snow had cared enough for a painting.

"Uh, Mr. Wolf?" Snow's voice snapped him out of his reverie. "Time's wasting."

"Oh. Um. Right. Just... zoned out for a second," Bigby replied, too old and too proud to blush, but feeling suitably embarrassed nevertheless. He made the short trek back to his office and found his double-breasted gray tweed winter coat waiting for him where he left it on the coat rack. Throwing it on, the wolf marched back to Snow's office; she awaited him nearby her desk, a larger midnight blue coat over her blazer and a scarf around her neck.

"Are we ready to go?" She asked.

Bigby smiled faintly. "Time's wasting."

* * *

They picked up a cab just off Kipling Street, and the ride was slow and comfortable, a rarity among New York City cabbies. The silence between the two was loud, but not uncomfortable; Bigby found it enough to just enjoy Snow's presence and watch the year's first snowstorm ravage the streets.

But, eventually, the two found themselves standing on the sidewalk just outside the Trip-Trap, and true to form, the scuffle could be heard outside the door and above the howling winds.

"That sounds bad," Snow commented.

Bigby cast the ravenette a sidelong look. "You sure you want to come in?" He asked as he lit a cigarette, for some reason Snow smiled faintly at that, but immediately covered it with an offended glare:

"I may not be the Big Bad Wolf with his claws and his Huff N'Puffs, but I can handle myself, Sheriff."

"Fine by me," Bigby shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette. "If Gren gives you any trouble, just glass him. Or better yet, tell me so I can rip of his other arm off and we won't have to deal with him fighting at all."

The only response the wolf got was a glare.

"That was a joke, Snow."

"It wasn't very funny."

"Tough crowd."

Steeling himself for the inevitable abuse from Gren and the complaints from Woody, Bigby shuffled down the steps to the door and opened it only to get a face full of glass bottle. It shattered against him, and somewhere in between the pain, Bigby heard Snow's gasp of surprise. True to form, he wouldn't be brought down by a thrown bottle and winced his eyes open. Gren lay flat on the ground just in front of the door, looking as though he had ducked the bottle, which, judging by his shocked look, was thrown by Bigby's once eternal enemy, The Woodsman:

"Jesus, Wolf," he remarked, looking somewhere between awed and regretful.

Holly, the bartender, shook her head in disgust. "You fucking pigs. Wolf, can you get these two to stop fucking with my bar?"

"Right," said Bigby, checking his face for any shards that may have stuck in the skin, "Woody, you're lucky I'm already ugly. Now fuck you and come with me so I don't have to waste my time kicking the shit out of you."

"Oh, go fuck yourself Wolf," the one-eyed and one-armed Gren stood up and shot a dirty look at Snow, who still stood at the base of the steps with a poleaxed expression from the flying projectile and Bigby's reaction to it. "You and your lady friend come down here to Lord it over us all again?"

"You know something, Gren? I'd have thought losing an arm would give you a greater sense of respect for what you've got left," Bigby said in that unperturbed way of his. "But maybe the saying is true: you don't appreciate it until it's all gone. If I have to come in here one more time because of you, I'm taking the other arm as payment."

"Bigby!" Snow rebuked from the door, outraged, but the threat seemed to do the trick on Gren, who shuffled back, cowed.

"Now, Woody," Bigby growled, eyes flashing yellow for the faintest of seconds. Though The Woodsman appeared drunk, all the booze in the world wouldn't keep him belligerent to the wolf, at least not anymore:

"Alright, shit, Bigby. You don't gotta go all wolfy on me, I'm coming," The Woodsman said as Bigby shook his head and motioned the man to walk outside. He earned a half-hearted thanks from Holly and some snide comment from Gren, but he didn't have the patience to deal with him at the moment.

The duo-turned-trio stepped back outside. The cabbie had long since left; it wasn't in the nature of Mundies to be patient, one of the few things Bigby shared in common with them.

"Where are you taking me?" The Woodsman asked, a little apprehensive; Bigby wasn't surprised, the last time Bigby led Woody anywhere, it was to get a beating from Bluebeard over Snow White's fake severed head.

"The Woodlands," Bigby replied. "You're staying in the brig until you sober up and then I'll let you go."

The burly lumberjack nodded mutely; as far as both of them were concerned, The Woodsman was getting off lightly.

"And Woody?" Bigby continued.

"Yeah?"

"Same goes for you as Gren. If you two get into another fight, I'm gonna fill _you_ with stones and throw you off the Brooklyn Bridge, understood? Either work out your problems or stay the hell away from the Trip Trap. Go to the Branstock if you want to get drunk." The wolf said, to the eternal dismay of the Deputy Mayor and a shrug from his old enemy.

"You can be real twat sometimes, you know that?"

"All part of the charm, now come on," Bigby shoved The Woodsman forward, a few paces ahead of himself and Snow. Speaking of whom, she rounded on Bigby the moment the old lumberjack was more than a yard away:

"Bigby! What the hell are you thinking? You can't just _threaten_ Fabletown citizens like that!" She chided ferociously, and her fury likely was not abated by Bigby's low smirk:

"Oh, that? That's just good, old-fashioned hot air," he replied. "It's the huffing and puffing of the new age. Lucky for me, people still fear me enough to think I'll blow their house down. Relax, Snow. I'm not going to go Red Riding Hood on you. It wasn't exactly my finest moment nor is it a memory I really want to relive."

"Oh, that puts me at ease," the Deputy Mayor shot back snidely.

"Besides," Bigby continued, as if he hadn't heard her say anything at all, "there's been nothing to do around her for months besides these stupid Trip Trap fights. A man's gotta find his entertainment where he can."

"Nothing to do?" Snow interjected incredulously. "And you're _sad_ about that? Why on earth would you be _sad _about it?"

"You said it yourself: I like when things go wrong," Bigby winked and took a drag of his nearly spent cigarette.

Snow didn't respond to his repetition of an earlier accusation, one from years ago and one she probably thought Bigby had forgotten. It was a question that hung between the two like an inescapable fog: he had never responded one way or another when Snow had asked him, and whatever chance to prove his loyalty to her died when he promised to end the Crooked Man for Georgie Porgie. Leaving aside that he couldn't leave the Crooked Man's fate to chance, Bigby took his oaths seriously, even if he did swear them to filth like Georgie.

And once more the fog descended over the two, and Snow retreated into the shell Bigby had spent three years coaxing her out of. For weeks, for months after the Crooked Man case, Snow refused to have a conversation that even verged on friendly or personal. It had only been recently, with the studious visitation of her in his months of boredom, that they had returned to friendly terms.

But again, there was always that chasm between the two: between what was legal and what was justice, between the idealistic and the pragmatic. Her idealism in the face of all that she had seen was one of the things that attracted Bigby to Snow in the first place, but he saw no place for idealism when monsters such as these roamed the night.

He brought the cigarette to his lips once more, but, with a shade of disappointment, found the deathstick had burned out. With a sigh, he flicked the butt onto the street, where it was promptly crushed by an oncoming driver in a Camaro, and fished out another cigarette from his pack, lit up, and smoked some more.

"You're still bleeding," Snow suddenly interrupted. Bigby touched his face and pulled back to see blood ringing the pads of his fingers.

"So it seems. It's alright, I heal fast," he replied, quickening his pace to their destination.

Bullfinch Street and the Woodlands came up seemingly out of nowhere, but the three pressed in silence past Snow's once-pristine grass, now covered by, well... snow. The walkway just outside the Woodlands had turned into a slurry which Bigby and Snow were careful to avoid but which the inebriated Woodsman plowed through with little concern.

Trusty John, white as a sheet at Bigby's state, let them through the door and past a peacefully-slumbering Grimble.

"I'm taking him to the cell to sleep it off," Bigby said. "Give him water and brew a pot of strong coffee. He won't bother you, _will he_?" He trailed off with a pointed look at the bearded mountain man.

"Right, yeah. Don't worry, I won't mash your pretty face in," he slurred.

That was about as good as Trusty John would get by way of assurances, so Bigby went about his business locking The Woodsman in the brig for the night. Snow still waited for him when Bigby returned from the lower levels of the 'apartment building' and offered him something like a smile:

"Thanks for the walk, Mister Wolf. I needed the air," she said as she punched the elevator button.

Bigby couldn't stop the smile that wormed its way onto his lips. "Anytime, Snow. Anytime."

They entered the elevator together.

* * *

He woke up late at night to a faint whiff of cinnamon and the sound of lightly pattering feet. Bigby supposed if he were truly a human, he wouldn't have noticed, but everyone had their advantages and disadvantages, he guessed. Still, it was lightyears better than when she had tried to sneak in on him during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

"You know," a soft voice said just ahead of him. "You look younger when you sleep."

"I'm not sleeping," he replied. "Or, I was, until you decided to sneak into a wolf's apartment wearing your distinctive perfume. Amateur mistake, Cindy."

"Oh? You recognize my perfume? I'm so _flattered_, Bigby! Am I in _Snow White_ territory yet?"

"Shut up." Bigby said, cracking open an eye and taking a good, long look at the blonde before him. A glorious sight, Cinderella wore a low cut white shirt and black jeans under a blue jacket far too thin for the dead of winter but one that undeniably accentuated her cerulean eyes. "How was London?"

"Refreshing, educational, far too boring for me," Cindy replied casually as she inspected her nails. Cindy and Snow had become the two constant women in Bigby's life, and they couldn't be anymore different: where Snow was cold and reserved, Cindy was airy and bright like a spring morning; Where Cindy was tanned and her hair sun-bleached, Snow was porcelain-skinned and ebony-haired; where Cindy was messy, Snow was organized; where Snow barred anyone from even the slightest attempt to get close to her, Cindy welcomed companionship and found as much value in the act of sex as the emotional state behind it.

In fact, the only things the two shared were beauty and the same, two-timing ex-husband, Prince Charming.

"So then, what are you doing back in Fabletown? Thought you were going to take some time off... to _scout _things," Bigby asked with a pointed look.

"I'd just like to warn you. Get some rest; you're about to be woken up and you won't get to go back to sleep for some time afterward. And I'll be around if you need any help on this one."

"Suitably cryptic," Bigby remarked. "Is that it?"

"That's it, baby. Go back to sleep," the blonde winked. Her style had always been flirtatious but platonic: she blew a kiss at the wolf and stalked off into the shadows, and in a moment, the smell of her perfume receded, though it still lingered a little in his nose.

"Bigby?" Another voice, male this time. "You talking to someone?" Colin, one of the three little pigs, stared back at Bigby with bleary eyes.

"It was nobody, Colin," Bigby replied. "Best get back to sleep." The pig, never one to refuse such an offer, merely did the closest equivalent to a shrug he could muster with his haunches and trotted back for Bigby's lone bedroom.

Over the centuries, Bigby had realized to be the Sheriff of Fabletown required far more than detective-work. He was often a soldier, a general, and a spymaster to compliment his gumshoe status, though few truly knew about that. Cindy was by far his most effective 'agent'. There hadn't bee a single code, fact, or scrap of information she had told him about that wasn't in any way accurate.

And this one proved to be true soon enough, when a knocking came at Bigby's door two hours later.

Blinking, Bigby stood from his armchair and stretched until his muscles were loose and ready for anything. Colin would know better to stay in Bigby's bedroom when anyone, especially Snow, came knocking, but to avoid any possibility of mishap, Bigby headed to the door before the knocker had a chance to wake the pig. Softly opening the door, Bigby was surprised to spot Boy Blue, the newly appointed aide to the esteemed Deputy Mayor, standing outside in his striped blue pajamas and looking equally as drained as the old wolf.

"Blue?" Bigby questioned, squinting as if he had been actually sleeping and not awaiting this night-call. "What's going on?"

"Follow me," the man, trapped eternally in the body of a teenager, replied. "Miss Snow White and the Mayor wish to see us."

"King Cole?" Bigby whistled low. "Well, this must be serious. Take point, Boy."

They walked together to the lift and called for it, silently waiting until the door slipped open. Boy Blue was the first inside, jabbing the 'Penthouse' button on the elevator dash as Bigby followed him inside. The lift climbed fast; the residents of the Woodlands had wanted it that way. Within ten seconds, they had climbed from Bigby's floor to the penthouse, which opened up around him to the opulent palace of King Cole.

Waiting for him, it seemed, were a coterie of worried faces: Snow was the first of them that he noticed; King Cole, a fat, jovial man with an impressive white moustache, stood next to her; Bluebeard lounged not too far away on one of the mayor's braxton couches; Bufkin fluttered his wings in the air by Snow, looking sober, for once.

All in all, Bigby wasn't particularly thrilled at the company, nor was he sure that he wanted to hear whatever bad news it was they wished to dump on him. Sometimes, he wished Cindy was just a _bit_ more forthcoming with her information. He would have to change the mercurial blonde's attitude at some point, but it didn't seem like now was the time to dwell on it.

"So, you all called me here at—" Bigby stopped to check his wristwatch, "—4:47 in the morning for what?"

All faces were grave, discounting Bluebeard, who looked as smug as usual, which didn't help Bigby's sour mood any. When he gave them an impatient look, the inhabitants of the room shifted uneasily, as if they were breaking the worst news possible. Bluebeard, his directness for once being a boon instead of a millstone, took point with a disgusted look toward his compatriots:

"Sheriff Wolf, as much as it pains me to include you into this operation, we find ourselves in need of your help," he said with a look that suggested he had eaten raw snails rather than ask Bigby for help.

Bigby raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah, and how's that?"

Bluebeard seemed to have decided he had enough denigrating to the Big Bad Wolf, so the Nervous-Shifting Olympics began anew. Bigby knew that King Cole was too much of a waif to ever do his job, let alone inform Bigby of anything that he might need to know, so the wolf expected little of the Mayor. Bufkin was a drunkard, so he took anything the monkey said with a grain of salt. And Boy Blue looked half-dead with sleep, so that left only one person. And thankfully, Snow seemed to regain her voice at that moment:

"Bigby. We... we have reason to believe that there's a spy in Fabletown. A spy for _The Adversary_."

The way Snow had said it, with such perfect seriousness even for her, Bigby expected a jester to jump out of some hidden cake with a yell of 'Surprise!'. But it wasn't a joke; their faces remained as grave as ever. Snow's reaction was enough to make Bigby fret, but Bluebeard sealed the deal: the perennially smug man seemed to be losing some of that smugness as worry fought to consume his expression. Bigby's eyes widened at that.

Cindy was right, there was no sleep to be had tonight.

**To be Continued in Episode 1:  
****A Quarter Gone**

* * *

**A/N**: Just an idea that wouldn't go away after playing through Cry Wolf and rereading some John Le Carré books. I want to do it in the Telltale "Episode" format. Five episodes, so, the writing will be slow, released periodically, but I estimate even the shortest episode will have to be at least three times the length of this prologue.

Chapter Notes:

Since some of you likely haven't read Fables, the graphic novel The Wolf Among Us is based off of, I'll be putting some things that may or may not be explicitly stated in TWAU but are well-known in the Fables universe in here to help those who haven't read the graphic novels.

**Cinderella** was Prince Charming's third wife, after Snow White and Briar Rose, but, like the two of them before her, the marriage didn't last very long. This is the reason why the prologue is called 'The First and the Last', referencing the first of Prince Charming's wives (Snow) and the last (Cindy). She's a pretty kickass spy/assassin in Fables and I'm fairly sure she was supposed to make an appearance in Season 1 of TWAU.

**Frau Totenkinder **is one of the 13th floor witches, an amalgamation of many fairy tale witches, but most prominently the one that was outwitted by Hansel and Gretel.

**Boy Blue** is Snow White's office clerk much the same way as she was for Crane in Season 1.

**King Cole** is briefly mentioned in Season 1 of TWAU, but if you don't remember, he's the mayor of Fabletown.

What happened to Faith/Nerissa at the end of Episode 5 will be discussed next chapter.

That should be it for the notes. Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll leave a review!  
Geist.


	2. Episode 1: A Quarter Gone, Part 1

Summary: Post-TWAU Season 1 and Pre-Fables. Three years after the Crooked Man incident, things have returned to something resembling normalcy in Fabletown. Glamours are still overpriced, Snow White is still laden with demands of a restless public (even with help from the newly appointed Boy Blue), and Bigby Wolf still smokes like a Bristol chimney. Frustrated by a lack of action, Bigby gets his wish for more chaos when Fabletown comes to him with a case only he can solve.

Disclaimer: The Wolf Among Us and Fables belong to Telltale Games, Bill Willingham, Vertigo, DC, and a whole host of other people and factions that I simply am nowhere near cool or talented enough to be a part of.

* * *

**The Wolf Among Us  
**Season 2: A Wolf at the Door

**Episode 1:** "A Quarter Gone"  
**Part 1:** "Half a League"

* * *

The snowfall had turned into a blizzard since Bigby retreated into his apartment all those hours earlier. It was an early winter, surprising considering how warm the summer had been. Snow took point down Bullfinch Street, Bluebeard easily in-step with her, and Bigby followed behind the two like a sullen schoolchild, dufflebag in hand. Somewhere in the shadows, a scent of cinnamon carried through the howling northerly wind.

Good. Cindy wasn't too far, at least someone on his side was nearby.

Turning his attention back to the two ahead of him, Bigby observed: he had been on the receiving end of Bluebeard's holier-than-thou smirk several times in the past few minutes, but Snow didn't bother looking back. Ordinarily, this would have offended the wolf, if the winds hadn't carried her own scent to him, revealing her shame and embarrassment over something. She seemed to be debating an apology.

Bigby would accept, but he still didn't know what was going on. Snow had told him that The Adversary, the faceless ruler of the Empire that had sent all Fables running for the Mundy world, had a spy within Fabletown and then they had ushered him back into the elevator. Snow then revealed an astounding bit of information as they traveled back to his floor that he could grab his coat and pack a change of clothes in case they spent more than one day away from Fabletown:

Two years earlier, a Fable had made it through the Canada Gate to the Homelands, a dimension gate that Bigby thought had long been closed, by The Adversary's forces, no less. They had taken all the necessary precautions and placed him in a home of his own, well-guarded and far from the prying eyes of Fabletown, and he was given a handler. When that handler went to visit this Fable earlier in the day, the Handler found him dead.

All well and good, but why was the Fabletown Sheriff kept out of the loop?

Having decided he had stewed upon it long enough, Bigby finally spoke. "Why wasn't I told about this when it happened?" Snow stubbornly kept her head faced forward, though Bigby could sense the shame in her double. Bluebeard, on the other hand, had no problems with informing Bigby of his shortcomings, dropping far enough back to be out of Snow's earshot.

"Because she doesn't trust a cowboy like you," he said, and though he faced away, Bigby could sense the sneer on Bluebeard's lips. "Tweedledum, Georgie Porgie, The Crooked Man? You see things one way only—_your_ way."

"I didn't see anyone else's way stopping them," Bigby shot back, "yours least of all. All you ended up doing was beating on the innocent. Besides, you're one to lecture me on pragmatism; you _always_ think the only way to solve something is through murder."

Bluebeard seemed unimpressed by the retort. "And yet you did the same, Wolf. You left a river of blood running through Fabletown, and you didn't do it for justice, you did it because you know you like it. Perhaps we're not so different in the end."

The kneejerk response, one of sanctimonious outrage, quickly died on Bigby's tongue. Why bother convincing Bluebeard, of all people? He'd never win, regardless of whether or not he shared the same penchant for sociopathy as the once-pirate. So, he merely reached into the breast pocket of his coat, drew out a cigarette, and lit it. It worked like a charm: Bluebeard had never liked cigarettes, but he liked Huff N'Puffs least of all; disgusted, he recoiled away from Bigby, causing the old wolf to smile at the return of his personal space.

Bigby took this chance to speed up toward Snow, where he fell in-step behind the once-princess:

"Snow?" He asked. "Are you going to talk to me at all?"

"Not right now, Bigby," she answered lowly. "Wait until we're alone."

"It's the middle of a blizzard, Snow. There's no one around for miles; I'd be able to sniff them out if there were."

"Still," she held steadfastly. "Just, please wait, Bigby. I'll explain everything soon."

He was unsatisfied by Snow's response, but Bigby relented anyway. "Alright. I'll take your word for it."

She smiled reassuringly and patted him on the arm, the most intimate action between the two since that night he had taken a silver bullet from Bloody Mary's Colt revolver. They continued in the snow for five blocks north on Kipling before veering wildly to the right down a side alley to a run-down, decrepit-looking garage. Snow sighed at Bigby's quirked eyebrow:

"It's nicer inside," she defended.

"I know," replied Bigby as they made for the door, "but did you really take this guy that far out?"

"Yeah," deadpanned Snow, "why do you think I made you pack extra clothes?"

"I don't know, because you tend to be a bit psychopathic when it comes to preparation?"

Snow ignored Bigby's quip and procured a key for the latch on the garage door from her coat pocket, unlocking it with surprisingly deft grace given the temperature. Then again, Snow had always had an affinity for the cold. _Makes sense when you think about it_, Bigby mused idly as Snow lifted the door with ease. Bluebeard gave Snow an appraising look, as if he had expected her to ask one of them to do the heavy-lifting._  
_

_Bluebeard also doesn't know that door is charmed to be feather-light to an administrative Fable_, thought Bigby as what appeared to be a small garage expanded into a veritable showroom for all the cars Fabletown had accumulated over the years. From a slowly withering Ford Super Deluxe in the far corner of garage to the racing green Jaguar E-Type Bigby had purchased in 1965 (four-hundred years of having a stable job did end up paying dividends) for the day he finally learned to drive. 21 years on and Bigby was still as road-illiterate as he was on that spring morning in 1908 when he was nearly run over by a careless Mundy in a Model T.

_Maybe someday._

Bigby stopped, a whiff of _something_ in the air besides Snow's distinctive aroma and Bluebeard's expensive cologne. As Snow and Bluebeard looked around for a car, Bigby found himself in inexplicably drawn to a black Aston Martin at the front of the pack, but off to the side where it might be ignored by most passersby, which had been purchased for the Mayor via Bluebeard's "donations", being one of the few to escape the Homelands with his fortune intact.

Moving to the rear, Bigby dropped down to the exhaust and sniffed. _Exhaust fumes_, he mused, _this car's been used recently. _He stood and moved to the front of the car, feeling the hood. _Cold as ice, someone drove it recently, but not within the last few hours._ He bent low once more, to the shade around the tires and dipped a finger, feeling cold water. _That confirms it. Definitely been driven through snow._

Snow looked around for a car that could fit the three and apparently had decided a Toyota was the way to go, to the eternal disgust of Bluebeard, a man more comfortable on the galley than in the backseat of a compact car. Bigby stressed backseat because that was all Bluebeard was going to get. Snow opened the door to the car and peered inside, then reaching in a withdrawing a set of jangling keys, upon which she flagged the prodigal wolf over from the Aston:

"Still don't know how to drive, Sheriff?" She asked, holding the keys out.

"Road-retarded, I'm afraid," the wolf quipped, stalking off to take the passenger seat before Bluebeard could. Hearing another set of jingling, Bigby could only assume that Snow had then offered the keys to Bluebeard, who would be offended at even the thought of grasping the wheel of anything but a pirate frigate.

Sighing, Snow got into the driver's seat as Bluebeard slunk into the back. "One day, Wolf, I'm teaching you how to drive."

"You're welcome to try," Bigby shrugged.

Bluebeard, however, seemed more in the mood to complain: "Why am _I_ confined to the brig?"

"It's not the _brig_," Snow countered exasperatedly, "it's called the _back seat_. Where have you been the last seventy years?"

"As far from you two as physically possible," Bluebeard drawled.

Bigby snorted, he may have been a bastard, but sometimes Bluebeard's dry sense of humor had to be appreciated from time-to-time. "Believe me, Bluebeard, the feeling's mutual."

For the umpteenth time that night, Snow sighed.

* * *

It was a long drive to Rochester, where Snow claimed the dead Fable was, so Bigby took the time to catch up on his sleep, which had been woefully lacking over the past few weeks. It wasn't that he was too busy, quit the opposite, in fact. But he could never fall asleep for more than a few minutes at a time, living as a functioning insomniac.

Somehow, the drive put him to sleep like a stone. He would later attribute the ability to sleep a byproduct of being so near to Snow and her calming scent.

It was with a shake of the arm that she awoke him some time long after dawn had come and gone. Bigby jolted awake, being unused to deep sleep, even during the days he had been safe under his mother's care in the Homelands.

"How long have I been out?" He asked, blinking groggily.

"Near six hours now," Snow said, looking similarly bleary-eyed, though it was apparent she hadn't gotten six hours of sleep like he had. The car was parked in front of a motel somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere. "It was the best our contact in Rochester could do on such short notice, unfortunately."

It was a shoddy apology, but Bigby guess Snow meant well and gave her a reassuring nod before stepping out of the car, where Bluebeard already awaited them:

"Two rooms," he said exasperatedly, "the idiots at the front desk gave me _two_ keys because we only have _two_ rooms."

"A double and a single?" Bigby asked.

"Yes."

"Then why are you complaining? Everyone gets their own bed."

"He's right, Bluebeard. We can't be choosy right now," Snow said. "What room numbers are they?"

"113 and 114," Bluebeard replied, "follow me."

They passed rows and rows of hotel housing units, each punctuated by a deep-red door with a cheap knocker affixed to it. Numbers whizzed by 102, 105 109, 111, and finally, 113 and 114.

"So which is the single, and which is the double?"

"Double's 113, single's 114," Bluebeard said.

_So that means Snow gets the single and I get stuck with Bluebeard. Well that's a shitty thought, but I guess I can live with it._ As Bigby opened his mouth to offer the single to Snow, Bluebeard tossed a key at Bigby and simply took Room 114 with a grin, leaving Bigby and Snow with the double. This, normally, would be great twist of fate for any man that knew Snow, but for Bigby, it was a nightmare.

Trapped in a room with just her scent. At all times. It was disturbingly easy to imagine he might pull a Crane and cross the line from attracted to obsessive.

Snow, on the other hand, didn't seem to possess the same patience as Bigby did to stand outside a door and think. "Bigby. Are you going to move or should I get the front desk to call an ambulance?"

Reverie interrupted, Bigby slid the key into the door and turned until the lock clicked, allowing the door to swing away into, well... fairly elegant lodgings for a shitty roadside motel. He was more surprised than anything by it, and Snow pounced on it:

"Were you expecting something different?"

"Yeah, blood and flowers on the bed," he deadpanned.

Snow narrowed her eyes. "Not funny, Wolf."

"Understood, ma'am," Bigby saluted the deputy mayor sarcastically and shut the door behind them once both were inside. Snow made for the bed and kicked off her heels with a pleased sigh:

"They'll be expecting us around noon. Our contact wanted time to look at the crime scene herself."

"Herself? So it's a she?"

Snow continued as if she hadn't heard him: "So we can get a few hours rest before heading over."

"Right," Bigby replied, setting down his dufflebag and fishing through it for another set of clothes. "Do you want the shower?"

"No," Snow declined. "I think I will get an hour or two of sleep, then we can go fetch some breakfast."

Bigby nodded. "Alright," he paused as she relaxed onto the bed in her work clothes and closed her eyes. He watched for a few seconds, observing her now-peaceful expression. "Say, Snow?"

"Hmmm?" Was the slow response.

"Did King Cole travel anywhere within the past twelve or so hours?"

Snow blinked her eyes open. "No, not that I'm aware of... why, is the Mayor a suspect?"

"Everyone's a suspect," Bigby laughed, "the only person who I know for sure hasn't killed whoever this secret Fable is, is me. And maybe Jack, because he's a fuck-up. But I'd be lying to you if I said the Mayor was very high up my list of suspects."

"Then why ask?"

"Does anyone else but you and the Mayor have access to the garage? I mean, some of us from the Woodlands store our cars in there but we don't all have keys."

"Yeah, some people do. There's a short-list back at the Business Office. What's wrong?"

"Nothing for right now," Bigby said, "but I'll have to check on that list once we get back to Fabletown."

"Oh. Um, okay. But you're going to have to tell me what this is about, Bigby."

Bigby shrugged as he pulled off his jacket. "I'll explain everything soon," Snow frowned at his deliberate parroting of the words she had given him earlier on the topic of the Fable who had escaped the Homelands. "For now, get some rest; you look like hell."

Snow smirked, half-amused, half-offended. "Thanks, Bigby. Because you're _such_ a looker yourself."

"That wounds me, Miss White."

"Mmhmm," she intoned disbelievingly, before taking a closer look at Bigby. "Wait, Sheriff. What the _hell_ is that?" She pointed at Bigby's shirt, currently covered by a straps over his shoulders that most certainly weren't suspenders.

"They're shoulder holsters," Bigby replied, withdrawing something from near his side. "For, you know, _guns_. .44 AutoMag, these things are _hard_ to find these days." He brandished a large caliber, metallic handgun with a comfortable wood-grained grip.

"That's not a gun, Bigby, that's a cannon," chided Snow. "And what do _you_ need a gun for, anyway?"

"You made me promise not to use my wolf form. I gotta defend myself somehow," shrugged the wolf. "Some Fables are stronger than me when I'm in human form. Even Woody could kick the shit out of me if I don't have a weapon of some sort."

Snow raised an appraising eyebrow, but seemed to accept it. "Just... don't cause too much trouble with it. I already get enough about you as it is, Bigby," she sighed, as she collapsed back onto the bed and shut her eyes once more. Bigby shook his head and headed into the bathroom, once again, surprisingly elegant for a roadside motel, carved and smoothed tiles, a porcelain washbasin with what appeared to be golden taps, and a bath that looked far too large for the room.

He suspected someone had enchanted this room overnight, or perhaps, this was a Fable hotel Bigby wasn't privy to.

Somewhere outside the bathroom, Snow seemed to be attuned to his thoughts, for she answered the questions running through the wolf's mind from the bed: "It's an enchantment. Any time a mundy walks in here, they get the classic roadside motel. When a Fable comes around, they get this."

Well, that explained a lot.

He quickly set to changing, opting for a black shirt and khaki-colored trousers, loosely affixing his typical black tie to the ensemble before stepping out of the bathroom. Snow's breathing had evened out as she slumbered peacefully over the covers. Bigby had gotten sleep during the ride to Rochester, but it hadn't been anywhere close to enough to make up for the weeks of insomnia beforehand, so he shuffled over to the other bed, clambered atop it, and slumped over onto the pillow, allowing Snow's scent to carry him to sleep.

* * *

When he awoke, it was at Snow's insistence.

"Bigby," she said when he blinked awake, "Christ alive, you were out like a light. How much sleep have you been getting lately?"

"Not much," Bigby replied shortly, content to leave out the fact that Snow's aroma was like inhaled valium, so sweet that it could put a Cloud Kingdom giant in a coma. He also refrained from mentioning how much easier he'd sleep if she were nearby him at all times; that would likely put him firmly in 'creep' territory.

"Well, I've gotten enough sleep to function. Now, just to get some breakfast."

They gathered Bluebeard and made for the car, and this time, Snow forced Bluebeard to take the wheel. It was all well and good to see Bluebeard sneer at the very sight of the driver's seat, but the change-up had forced Bigby into the back as Snow took the passenger's seat. The ignominy of being shoved into the 'brig', as Bluebeard called it, didn't last long, however, as they grabbed a late breakfast at a Burger Chef and made their way into town.

And then they made their way _out _of town to a small white house not more than a five minute walk from Lake Ontario. There was an element of the surreal to it when Bigby stepped out of the car: he hadn't seen architecture like this since the Homelands; even the castles of Europe he had observed from afar never looked as... idyllic as the cottage that stood before the three. A woman stood outside the door, on the porch of the cottage, a rather fetching blonde with bewitching green eyes and an anachronistic dress who spoke with a European accent Bigby couldn't quiet identify:

""Hallo, Miss Snow," she greeted through the thick dialect; it wasn't exactly unpleasant. "Shall we go inside?"

"I think that will do, Yvonne, thank you for all the help," Snow replied with a sincere smile.

The blonde, Yvonne, apparently, responded with an even lovelier smile. "It is my job, no?"

Bigby was content to let Snow deal with the woman while he watched. It was a loose, flowing dress the woman wore, but it wasn't entirely featureless. A pleasant aroma of tulips followed her wherever she went, too. Bigby's eyes followed the sway of her hips as she turned, that is, he did until a sharp jab of pain stabbed through his side. Rubbing his side, Bigby turned to his side, only to come face-to-face with a glaring Snow.

Bigby rolled his eyes and stared straight forward, which seemed to appease the raven-haired woman.

"It would do you well to continue keeping your eyes off her," Snow muttered as they crossed the threshold. "That woman's The Maid of Amsterdam," at Bigby's confused look, she continued, "her _husband_ is the jealous type."

"Noted," Bigby replied lowly, finally understanding what Snow meant.

Yvonne led them into a small but charming foyer, ignoring the curving staircase and pushing into a light, airy room of which nearly a whole wall was taken up by glass. It seemed as though the room had been set up as an artist's studio; canvasses stood on art stands at every corner of the room. Ironically, in a bizarrely macabre fashion, the greatest work of art lay on the ground: a pale white man decapitated at the head. Yvonne immediately left the room, so as to give Bigby ample space.

Snow grimaced at the body. "Reminds me of Faith," she commented slowly.

"Yeah," said Bigby, leaning down toward the body. "except the victim's a man, and this certain wasn't caused by a ribbon. The cut's too jagged to be magic. There aren't any defense wounds either, surprisingly, suggesting this was either a suicide, which is just stupid, no one decapitates themselves, the assailant was able to stay just out of arm's reach. Seems like a swordsman, if you'd ask me. A skilled one, but one working with a mundy blade."

He inspected the body further: jaundiced, bloodshot eyes stared out from under short-cropped reddish-brown hair; his arms were much too thin, though his legs seemed powerfully built. Despite the suggestion of liver failure from the eyes (_An alcoholic?_ Wondered the Sheriff), Bigby would have guessed the man was a runner in life. He sniffed, sweet and spicy scents mingled around the house, of cinnamon and ginger and honey.

"Human fable or under glamour?" Bigby posed the question to Snow and Bluebeard behind him.

"Glamoured, ridiculously so," replied Bluebeard. "If he hadn't received one, I doubt he'd be safe even on The Farm."

"So, what's the deactivation protocol? Where's the glamour tube?"

"Back left pocket," Snow replied. "Or, at least, that's what Yvonne told me."

Grunting, Bigby stood up, traveled around to the other side of the dead Fable and fished out a glamour tube from his pocket, uncorking it and watching as reddish-brown hair dropped out of it. A brilliant flash lit up the already-bright room, and when it receded, Bigby found himself more befuddled than anything. The man's skin had turned hard and brown; his mouth, once set in a thin line had painfully contorted into an empty, manic smile; and his jaundiced eyes? Well, there were no eyes at all, just two holes gaping from the fragrant corpse. _Him? Seriously?_ He thought. Looking up, Bigby speared both Snow and Bluebeard with an annoyed glare:_  
_

"You brought me all the way up to Rochester to investigate the death of a fucking _cookie_?" Bigby growled indicating the brown, baked dough formed in the image of a human.

Snow gasped, looking mortified at Bigby's behavior. "He preferred being called Gin or 'The Gingerbread Man'."

"I don't care if he wanted you to call him Sally Brown, he's a goddamned _pastry_! The murder isn't so difficult to solve now, maybe somebody was _hungry._"

"Much as I agree with you on this whelp's relative by-and-large uselessness," Bluebeard said disdainfully in regards to the fallen cookie, "it is important, Wolf. This Fable was the only source we had on the Empire."_  
_

"And someone came in here and killed him with a _blade_, Bigby," Snow continued for him. "This isn't a mundy robbery gone wrong or 'someone who was hungry', as you put it, this was premeditated. And it was likely done by a Fable. And no Fable in Fabletown besides us in the Business Office knew about him."

Bigby blinked. "Only those in the Business Office knew?"

"Yes," replied Snow, before her eyes widened at the implication.

"Then that makes you both suspects, as well as King Cole, Boy Blue, and even fucking Bufkin," Bigby said, shrugging his shoulders callously. "I want you both off the premises while I conduct my investigation."

Bluebeard's eyes bulged at that, a sight that almost made Bigby's day. "You _what_!? How _dare_ you—Miss White, you can't _possibly_—!"

"Sorry Snow," Bigby cut above the old pirate's outrage, "them's the rules."

"No, Bluebeard," Snow answered, offering a tentative smile in Bigby's direction. "Bigby's right. We _are_ suspects because we're the only ones that knew. If leaving the crime scene is what it takes, then we'll do it."

Bigby returned her smile. "Thanks, Snow. I'll be back in no time."

Snow nodded softly and turned, heading out back the way she came. Bluebeard, all his indignation spent, gathered himself up and stormed off in huff behind the raven-haired beauty. When the door shut behind them, Bigby walked back to the spiral staircase and called up:

"You can come out now."

Soon, the soft padding of feet reached the banister of the second floor and curled around down the stairs:

"That sense of smell is no fun," Cinderella smirked, wild honeyed hair falling in all directions as she did a slow, jazzy dance down the stairwell. "And would you look at that?" She pointed at the staircase. "How this _evokes_ memories long forgotten! If only I had a Prince to kiss me!"

"Can't do a Prince, but if you need a Wolf..."

"Oh my, Bigby, whatever will _Snow_ say?"

"Probably not a lot," Bigby replied shortly. "She's as attracted to me as I am ants. Did you know about the cookie?"

"Yes," replied Cindy as she waltzed up to the wolf and stopped just before him.

"And why didn't you tell me about it?"

"If I told you _The Gingerbread Man_ was providing Fabletown with information on The Adversary, would you have believed me?"

Bigby paused for a beat. "Point taken."

"But not is all as it seems," Cindy remarked, thrusting a sheaf of paper at Bigby. "Found this upstairs while you were berating Snow for making you waste time on a cookie. Take a look." Bigby did exactly that:

_Gin,_

_Tinker is in on Plot A. Sailor is in on Flat 6. Slinger in 12. Intrusion prepped for A, R, F. Exfiltrate "Exile" ASAP._

_ Circus._

"This sounds like gibberish," Bigby commented as he followed Cindy back into the studio room. "Is it code?"

"Of a kind. It isn't any type I've seen before, Bigby. Believe me when I say there isn't a Fabletown code, cipher, or Sudoku puzzle I don't know about, because there really isn't. I can tell you right now that we have no one in Fabletown going by codenames Tinker, Sailor, Slinger, or Circus. A, R, and F also appear to be other agents, but they haven't been inserted wherever they're going," Cindy said, leaning into a hip.

Bigby quirked an eyebrow. "You don't think—? They can't be _that_ incompetent, can they?"

"They didn't have _you_ vet ol' Ginger over there, so they're not exactly winning awards in the competence department," the blonde replied, shrugging with a scowl marring her usually lovely face.

"So he could have been playing double agent for The Adversary all along," Bigby said, "Snow has always had a habit of believing the best in people. She could have been fooled by the cookie, but even if she was, I don't think Bluebeard would be fooled. He may be an asshole, but he can tell with that sort. And it still doesn't make any sense. Why would the Empire want their own double agent killed? Especially one that has successfully inserted themselves into the Mundy World?"

"That's the question, Wolf. Any ideas?"

Bigby had a few, but he'd keep them close to his chest until he was sure of what was going on. "I don't think anything yet, Cindy. This letter is... strange, to say the least, but it doesn't confirm anything until I've conferred with Snow and Bluebeard. For now, let's keep looking around."

"You're the boss," Cindy quipped. "What do you want me to do?"

"You're the spy, I'm the detective. I'll give the house a once-over while you go do something Sean Connery would do on a shitty day in Rochester."

"Make myself a Martini? _Can do_, Sheriff," with that Cindy sauntered off, leaving Bigby to survey the cryptic code once more. There was next to no useful information on the paper, though perhaps he would be expected to divine its mysteries by season's start. Realizing he was getting nowhere with this, Bigby sighed and placed the letter in a pocket. The letter could wait, there was a whole house to slink through. And who knew, maybe he'd find something that would actually help with the decoding of the letter.

Since the letter was first discovered upstairs, perhaps there was more letters of lesser obscurity saved away for a rainy day, And Bigby found himself traveling up the staircase Cindy traipsed down no more than a few short minutes earlier.

The stairs underneath his feet creaked and groaned as Bigby stepped up to the second floor landing. Beyond the pretentious spiral staircase, the Gingerbread Man's dwelling was built like a typical country ranch house, not ugly, but not overly-ostentatious either. The floor was made of dark, glazed hardwood, the walls of simple, clean colors. Paintings and portraits littered the walls, in the space between doors, and hung up like an altar in what Bigby assumed to be the dead Fable's bedroom.

Bigby was by no means a student of art, but he didn't recognize a single painting, most of which seemed to be of airy landscapes and sweeping horizons, so he was inclined to think these paintings were the fruits of a new-found hobby for the Gingerbread Man.

The bedroom was meticulously organized: The desk was clear and free of clutter, the bed was made, and the small floor-rug at the foot of his bed was freshly vacuumed. _He's verging on neat-freak_, thought Bigby as he shuffled over to his desk. The books were all Mundy in nature: _Gulliver's Travels, The Sun Also Rises, Crime and Punishment, The Art of War... eclectic reading, to say the least._ There was even a well-worn book of fables, the Mundy version, at least, without all the clutter of their real lives. A bookmark was stuffed somewhere in the middle of the tome; Bigby opened up to that page, which revealed itself to be a short dossier on the Gingerbread Man himself.

The last few lines of the legend, which, coincidentally, had to do with The Gingerbread Man being eaten by a fox, were underlined in red pen:

I'm a quarter gone...  
I'm half gone...  
I'm three-quarters gone...  
I'm all gone!

_Musing on death?_ Bigby wondered. It seemed a strange thing for the Fable to highlight those mortal lines of his. He'd get nowhere in a hurry trying to decipher anything from that story, so Bigby set down the book and moved to the drawers. He found nothing in them save for pens, a calculator, a few notebooks marked from end-to-end with drawings, and finally, a half-empty can of Ready-Whip.

Bigby wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was doing there.

The rest of the bedroom yielded nothing but scraps of papers, old drawings, a couple of dollar bills, and one or two VHS tapes of Bob Ross's _The Joy of Painting_. Evidently the penchant for art that 'Gin' had picked up was recent. Gritting his teeth at the lack of any meaningful information, Bigby slipped out of the room and back down the spiral staircase, where Cindy waited, two glass tumblers of amber liquid in hand.

"I wasn't being serious about the drink," Bigby commented with an amused look. Cindy merely shrugged waifishly in response:

"Perhaps you were, perhaps you weren't. I poured it anyway," she offered one of the tumblers to Bigby, who accepted the drink graciously. He took a slow, relaxing sip, feeling alive as alcohol hit his stomach once more:

"Well, there's jack-shit up there," the Sheriff said gruffly. "There's not a whole lot to look for or do here, is there?"

Cindy smiled a mischievous smile. "We could always pull a 1906."

"A 1906? Really?"

"It was a good year," the blonde defended with a reminiscent smile.

"I'm guessing you forgot 1907, then," Bigby countered with a smirk. "We're not exactly... _compatible_."

Cinderella shrugged. "Yeah, I know. It's Miss White or the reaper's scythe for you. But it _was_ a good year, wasn't it? When you take out everything else?"

"It was."

A silence flooded the room, comfortable and nostalgic of years long past and passions once ignited, now cooled for all eternity. Cindy, however, had never been the type to dwell on the past for long and drew herself up with a smile:

"Then we finish looking around here together. Two heads are better than one, you know," she said as if that made everything right in the world. "I'd suggest taking a second look at the room he was killed in?"

Bigby made a sound of assent. "That's the best option. For now, we assume Ginger over there was a loyal citizen of Fabletown until we find something definitive proving otherwise."

"Any suspects besides Business Office Fables?" The blonde questioned, taking a sip of her own drink.

Bigby ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "None yet. Come on, let's go check out the studio again and then see if we can't have a conversation with the fair Maid of Amsterdam."

"Right behind you, Wolf," Bigby's companion said as he took point down the entrance hall and into that bright, airy room once more.

The body still lay on the ground, no less absurd than it was when the glamour was first disabled. The cut that killed the Fable was clean, indicating raw natural talent, but was jagged enough to suggest the swordsman was somewhat out of practice. Judging by the way the body had been laid out and the blood spurted onto the fresh white walls, he had been killed in glamoured form. Bigby stepped to another desk that was cluttered with scattered papers, poems, and drawings. A sensitive soul, no doubt.

_What could have possibly driven this Fable to escape from the occupied Homelands?_

Bigby ruffled through the papers, until red ink caught his eye once more. This time, it had nothing to do with The Gingerbread Man himself; it was a poem by Tennyson.

"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward..." Bigby began and trailed off until he reached each bleeding underlined portion:

Theirs not to make reply,  
Theirs not to reason why,  
Theirs but to do and die:  
Into the valley of Death  
Rode the six hundred.

"The Charge of the Light Brigade," the Sheriff muttered, wracking his brain for something, anything to make sense of this.

"What was that?" Cindy's full, liquid voice carried from the other end of the room.

"I don't know. It seems like our friend the Gingerbread Man's been going around underlining random phrases in poems and stories with a red pen. Lots of death and dying, but I'm not really sure what they're supposed to mean."

"You should take that up with Snow; if anyone knows, it's her," the spy responded quickly. "She's always been the type into poems and plays. I prefer a little bit more _adventure_ in my life."

"Hmm..." Bigby grunted in assent, reaching into his coat pocket for his pack of Huff N'Puffs. He pulled it out, but misjudged the amount of space he had to stretch and ended up knocking over a half-dried painting of Dover Beach at sunrise: "Shit!" He growled as the canvas careened to the floor and landed with a great big thud. The curse, however, was swallowed when a second sheet of paper, no bigger than loose-leaf, fluttered down atop it. _It must have been hidden behind the canvas,_ thought Bigby as he picked up the curio and read:

_Circus,_

_Exile is a go. Risk identification in prolonged exposure. Must send envoy to Canada G. for request of exfiltration or risking lives._

_Gin._

"Exile? Risking identification? Exfiltration? And the Canada Gate?" Bigby wondered aloud as Cindy sauntered up and read the missive over his shoulder:

"Well, that confirms it," Cindy shook her head sadly. "Looks like the Business Office were made for fools: Gingerbread _was_ a spy for The Adversary and had never defected from the Empire!"

"Are you sure?" Bigby questioned, eyeing the suspicious note, but with nowhere near the same surety as Cindy. "To me, it looks like everything else in this house: nonsensical gibberish."

"There are only two options when someone writes a letter like that: they're writing to someone working for The Adversary or, at the very least, someone like him in the Mundy World. And since they're talking about the Canada Gate for exfil, which leads straight into Empire-controlled lands, so I'm guessing it's likely _not_ the latter."

Bigby frowned, looking from the typewriter paper to the body and back before issuing his orders: "We'll have to hold onto that thought, Cindy. If this is true, we'll have to get out ahead of this. Find out if the way they're communicating is in person or by dead drop. If you can, get his hair to either Frau Totenkinder or Greenleaf, and absolutely _no other _witch on the 13th floor, do you understand me?"

"Oh, I love it when you're decisive, Sheriff Wolf," Cindy winked as she leaned into her hip. "Any other instructions?"

"When they're finished with it, glamour up and see what you can find out about whoever 'Circus' is."

Cindy quirked an eyebrow. "Sure that isn't stepping on the Business Office's toes?"

"Look, either the Business Office is completely inept and was given the runaround by one Fable, in which case I'm taking over this investigation entirely," Bigby said, "or, they killed him to keep any secrets from leaking, which doesn't seem like something Snow would let abide."

The blonde spy nodded, allowing Bigby ample room to pace and maneuver around the room. He walked over to the window and noticed a dirt drive-up not completely covered in snow or slush:

"I have to go outside and check something; you're welcome to keep looking, just make sure you're invisible by the time I get Snow and Bluebeard," he said to Cindy, who gave him a gauging look but had no reaction beyond that. The wolf slid past her through to the foyer, opened the door, and stepped outside, where Bluebeard and Snow stood waiting with Yvonne, the pretty Maid of Amsterdam.

Snow was the first to notice him. "Have you finished, Bigby? What did you find?"

"I'm not finished; Yvonne, I'd like to speak with you," he responded shortly and went on his way, curving around the house, barely waiting for the pretty young woman to follow him. Eventually she caught up to him when he stopped at the second dirt drive-up to the house and crouch down over tire tracks:

"You wished to speak with me?" She said in that alluring accent of hers.

"Yes," said Bigby, sniffing the air for the faint scent of gasoline. "Did you shift anything between when you discovered the body and when we came by?"

Yvonne looked scandalized at the very thought. "I beg your pardon, Sheriff! I would never do such a thing!"

"Alright Lady, calm down. It was just a question," Bigby assuaged her outrage with a puff of his cigarette. "Did you see anyone last night? Anyone in a car, anyone who might have come nearby this house?"

"Unfortunately, no, Sheriff. I was with my husband all day yesterday. Gin and I met infrequently."

Bigby nodded, he had all he wished to know from the blonde. "Thank you, miss. You're welcome to return to Snow."

Clearly confused at the Sheriff's method of procedure, Yvonne stepped off with a bewildered look in her eyes. Bigby once again crouched low to examine the tracks. Had there been dirt on the Mayor's car? He couldn't remember. He would have to get back to Fabletown soon and hopefully decipher what Gin had been speaking of in his letters.

So he trotted back to Snow and Bluebeard with some half-formulated theory cooked up.

"Well, Bigby?" Asked Snow. "What did you find?"

Bigby's judgment was quick and harsh: "Either you're all idiots, or one of you is _significantly_ smarter than the rest."

**To be Continued in Episode 1, Part 2:  
"Snow White, Snow Bright"**

* * *

Next time on The Wolf Among Us:

"Counter-espionage?" Snow remarked with some level of skepticism as she leaned back in her chair.

"Wave of the future, Snow," Bigby replied, seating himself on the corner of her desk and placing his hands on his lap as he spoke. "It's really the only option we have. If The Adversary is thinking about spying on the Mundy world, we better be prepared to give him hell."

"You read too many spy books, Bigby," Snow said with an unsettled laugh as she propped herself up on her elbows and covered her face entirely. "What a nightmare. Is this going to keep happening to us?"

Bigby did the only thing he could, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, hoping she'd draw some fortitude from human touch.

-/-/-/-

"Well, I've got the glamour tube," Cindy said brightly, "now to get the bastard whose sending these letters."

"Want me to come along?" Asked Bigby, quirking an eyebrow in wait for the blonde's response.

-/-/-/-

The AutoMag was a handgun, but when modified and given to the right man, it had the stopping power of a short-ranged shotgun at medium range. In hindsight, it wasn't so surprising, then, that the bullet ripped and shredded through Bluebeard's stomach.

* * *

**A/N**: To make chapter sizes more manageable, I think I'll break each episode into two parts, if I can. A lot went on in this chapter, and a lot of it will be explained next chapter, if it's a little confusing at all.

Chapter Notes:

**1906: **To put any possible rumors of Bigby/Cinderella to rest, no. There will be no subplot, there will be no love triangle. This is simply two friends reminiscing on a past, failed attempt at a relationship.

**Canada Gate**: In the Fables graphic novel, this is the gate that allowed the Fables to escape to the mundane world, and it was closed from the other side by The Adversary's minions, as he made to 'consolidate' his territories. If someone escaped through the Canada Gate, it was likely by The Adversary's choice, which is why Bigby and Cindy are skeptical about Gin's allegiances.

**Charge of the Light Brigade:** Is a poem by Tennyson concerning a suicidal charge by Lord Cardigan's Light Brigade during the Crimean War based off miscommunication of orders from higher-ups. The poem highlights the honor and strength of character it takes to follow an order that surely would kill you in the end.

**The Maid of Amsterdam:** Is the subject of an English sea shanty of the same name, in which a sailor courts a beautiful Dutchwoman from Amsterdam, only to find out she is married to a jealous, quick-tempered husband.

**AutoMag:** There's no handgun more eighties than Dirty Harry's _other_ gun. He's more famous for carrying the Smith and Wesson Model 29, but this gun makes an appearance in 1983's _Sudden Impact_.

To better envision the environment, the Aston Martin that belongs to the Mayor is the original V8 Vantage and the compact Toyota Snow takes Bigby and Bluebeard in is an AE86, which is best-known for being the Corolla from _Initial D_.

**Nerissa/Faith:** I know I said she would be discussed in this chapter, but since I split Episode 1 into two parts, Nerissa will have to be pushed back until next chapter.

**Random thought of the Day**: If The Wolf Among Us is set in the eighties, why are the clothes Bigby wears contemporary? Nobody wore the skinny tie from about 1975 to about 2005, and Bigby's shirt and pants are _way_ too fitted for anyone in the eighties. Even if they are built like a solid mountain of muscle like Bigby is. And it seems to be schizophrenic on that front, too: The Crooked Man dresses like Leisure Suit Larry during an acid flashback, Snow's blazer has the ridiculous eighties' shoulder pads that made women look like misshapen NFL Linebackers (though they toned it down with her), and Beast dresses, well, like a male dancer from Rick Astley's magnum opus. But Bigby, Beauty, and Bloody Mary? Straight out of the twenty-first century, dudes.

Thanks for reading, and be sure to leave a review!  
Geist.


	3. Episode 1: A Quarter Gone, Part 2

Summary: Post-TWAU Season 1 and Pre-Fables. Three years after the Crooked Man incident, things have returned to something resembling normalcy in Fabletown. Glamours are still overpriced, Snow White is still laden with demands of a restless public (even with help from the newly appointed Boy Blue), and Bigby Wolf still smokes like a Bristol chimney. Frustrated by a lack of action, Bigby gets his wish for more chaos when Fabletown comes to him with a case only he can solve.

Disclaimer: The Wolf Among Us and Fables belong to Telltale Games, Bill Willingham, Vertigo, DC, and a whole host of other people and factions that I simply am nowhere near cool or talented enough to be a part of.

* * *

**The Wolf Among Us  
**Season 2: A Wolf at the Door

**Episode 1:** "A Quarter Gone"  
**Part 2:** "Snow White, Snow Bright"

* * *

He was a hunter.

The wind whistled, leaves fell to the ground in shades of orange, the grass ruffled under his bare paws, and he was a predator once more. He was a mind without conscience, spurred on by the singular thought of revenge, an it was _freeing_. Rent flesh between his teeth, swallowing that weak old woman whole, stalking his prey to the very ends of the world.

_I am a hunter_. _And I am unyielding_.

But this day was not about food. This day was about gathering strength. For long years, the shortsightedness of men had caused them to encroach upon his territory, thinking they were safe from the horrors of the forest, in thinking they were safe from the Big Bad Wolf.

In his slumber, they had grown too bold, venturing where no man dared go before. They thought themselves masters of their world, chopping down their trees, and building their forts, and armor, and swords and shields. He had given them too much space, too much time to cultivate and become arrogant.

No more.

Tonight he would show them he was the apex predator of this world. And they would scurry back to their homes and castles, but it didn't matter. All mankind was built to serve his hunger, food for his belly, and that was all they should ever be.

He watched from the treeline, skulked about and spied on the happy, careless damned dither upon that entire day with something approaching consternation. The treeline had receded several meters since he was last here. And he saw men with axes chopping down the canopy in which he made his home. They dared attack his home, and so he would dare to attack theirs. It was time he fought their chaos. It was time once more men learned their place in their world.

The sun's last rays receded, the moon came up, and all the townsfolk grew weary. And when they did, he moved without the scantest sense of mercy or pity.

He was a hunter. And he was _unyielding_.

* * *

He awoke with a headache to the sound of knocking at the door, shaken at the contents of his subconscious mind. Bigby didn't dream often, but when he did, it was enough to unnerve even him. Blind rage and the thought of vengeance against the man who had let his mother die had anesthetized him for so long, Bigby never saw what damage he wrought. It was only the wisdom of adulthood that had allowed him to remember the wreckage of his past endeavors.

How many Fables had he killed in his time? A hundred? A thousand? Maybe more...

The knocking came a second time, this time a little more frantic, a tiny bit more annoyed. _That's Snow's knock, alright_. Bigby was suddenly reminded of that night three years earlier when a spooked Snow knocked at his door and led him down the elevator to one of the most memorable months in his already memorable life.

He opened the door on this chilly morning in 1986 just as he had that sweltering summer night of 1983, and Snow, as ageless as she had been that night, stood before him. There were some differences, however: Snow's hands were on her hips, she seemed more suspicious than nervous, she wore a blue vested pantsuit as opposed to her usual blazer-and-office-skirt combination, and she had done away with the conservative bun so late at night so that her raven hair fell in soft curls.

"Bufkin has the ledger ready for you, Sheriff Wolf," she announced professionally, even a little curtly. "Swineheart will perform an autopsy on Gin this morning. I'll let you know when he's done, hopefully he'll be able to give us some answers."

Rubbing his tired eyes, Bigby leaned into the doorjamb and crossed his arms. "Are we going to stand on ceremony, Miss White?"

"I don't know, am I still a suspect, Bigby?"

The man in question chuckled lowly. "You never were. I just did the whole song and dance back in Rochester to keep Bluebeard off my ass if I kicked him out but kept you on."

"Oh!" Snow exclaimed softly, realizing her earlier statements could be construed for rudeness. "I'm sorry Bigby. It's just been a trying day. Weeks, really." The ebon-haired once-princess looked away with a grimace. Bigby coughed awkwardly; he assumed he was supposed to comfort her somehow, but Snow didn't seem to be the type to take much luxury in human touch:

"Yeah. I get that," Bigby said lamely, mentally kicking himself for his ineloquent tongue.

It seemed to satisfy Snow somewhat, however, when she looked back and gave him a weak smile. "Are you coming to the Business Office, or...?"

"In a few," Bigby answered, stepping back from the door. "I should probably get changed. Haven't changed clothes since we went to Rochester."

"Bigby, that was over a _day _ago," Snow said.

"Right, whatever, I was tired," he replied, feeling only slightly defensive. "I'll be there in five minutes. You can go ahead if you want." Snow accepted the terms and headed off in the direction she came whilst Bigby headed to the tiny bedroom in the tiniest apartment in the Woodlands. Colin was still sleeping, thankfully; he would never hear the end of it from Snow if she found out the pig had not been sent to the farm with his brothers.

Sneaking past the snoring pig, Bigby opened his closet for anything worth wearing. The only thing left in his scant closet were two white, button-down shirts and a pair of black jeans that had been through the wash so many times they were beginning to look gray.

Shrugging, he fished them out and set to changing in the small living room, where the greeting card caught his eye once more. He had received it just over a week ago, a card reading "Hello From Paris!" on the front, embossed over a picture of the Eiffel Tower from afar. Bigby stepped up to it, picked it up, and flipped the card over once more:

_Slow year in Fabletown, Sheriff? You could always take a break from the monotony, you know. Up for a vacation?_

_F._

The invitation was obvious. Faith's motives, however, decidedly less so. Undoubtedly the cleverest person Bigby had ever met, he often wondered why Faith ever had to resort to prostitution when she could so thoroughly fool Fabletown's best and brightest from himself and Snow to The Crooked Man. Faith wasn't at the bottom of the Witching Well or confined to Hard Labor on The Farm only through Bigby's goodwill. On that day in the rain, he had figured out her secret and she knew. They both let matter go, knowing that some good had been done, even if it had been through questionable means.

Since then, he would receive postcards from her like clockwork every two months. He has seen postcards of Chicago, Los Angeles, Berlin, London, Sevilla... she even managed to sneak across the Iron Curtain and get him one from Leningrad.

He had yet to respond to the offer.

Once changed, he threw on his coat and hurried to the office, placing his shoulder holster on as he walked. The Business Office was an hour from opening its doors, so, fortunately, there weren't many people queuing but for the two or three Fables that thought they might get in first by showing up in advance.

Bigby ignored the faces that paled as he walked by. He was a hunter, and they were hardly even prey. He blinked hard at the thought and rubbed his eyes as he walked through the door: He wasn't a hunter, and they weren't prey.

Sometimes after the dreams, it became hard to distinguish himself from the bloodlust-driven Big Bad Wolf.

"Bigby! There you are!" Snow called from her desk as the man in question shut the door behind him.

"Yeah, I'm here. Now where's the ledger?" The wolf replied, trotting to Boy Blue's desk, where he carefully laid his coat down on the blond boy's vacant chair.

"Right here," replied the Deputy Mayor to Bigby's question, pointing at thick tome sitting right in front of her on the desk. Bigby walked over to her and looked down at the ledger over her shoulder, one hand coming to rest on the back of her chair and one on her desk. He was likely invading her personal space, but Snow wasn't moving away, so Bigby wouldn't either:

"So, anything interesting?" Bigby asked.

Snow shook her head. "Not really; the people we expected to have keys, have keys. Beauty and Beast, King Cole, Myself, The Weeping Woman, Bluebeard, even _you_ would if you ever bothered to come down and get one..." she shot him an accusing look.

Snow was somehow doubly attractive when indignant, but Bigby couldn't allow himself to be distracted, and kept professional: "Bluebeard has a key? I thought he couldn't drive. Why would he buy a car?"

"It's for his 'hired help' to drive," Snow replied. "And he _can _drive; Bluebeard just thinks it's beneath him to do so."

"So he's not a _complete_ Luddite," Bigby responded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Snow, of course, saw the thoughtful gleam in the wolf's eyes and immediately shook her head:

"No, Bigby," she warned.

Bigby's response was as whimsical as it was droll. "'No' what, Miss White?" He asked mockingly.

Snow merely shook her head at the smirking Sheriff and looked away. Her fists clenched and unclenched, and Bigby could sense uncertainty rolling off her like fragrant waves: "Bigby, are you sure that Gin was... was a spy?"

_I should have known she would take this hard,_ thought Bigby as he surveyed the raven-haired beauty. After inspecting the house with Cindy, Bigby revealed the treachery of Gin to Snow and Bluebeard. Needless to say, neither took the news particularly well. Snow stepped back in despair and Bluebeard raged as he was wont to do. Bigby, though privately worried for Snow and cursing himself for revealing the news so bluntly, made no outward show of compassion or understanding toward either of them. All patently false, however: Bigby could read Snow like an open book and he was fairly sure she could read him even without his sense of smell. She may not have known the Gingerbread Man, but Snow had spoken with him. She had trusted him. And the evidence pointed to 'Gin' betraying her.

"Well, I don't know anything for sure," he said, more for Snow's sake than anything else, "not until I find Circus, whoever he may be. But right now, well, it looks that way. It looks like a whole damned ring, in fact. I'm having Frau Totenkinder looking over the communiques between The Gingerbread Man and his handler right now. Maybe, if we're lucky, we can set up a sting and engage in some counter-espionage ourselves."

"Counter-espionage?" Snow remarked with some level of skepticism as she leaned back in her chair.

"Wave of the future, Snow," Bigby replied, seating himself on the corner of her desk and placing his hands on his lap as he spoke. "It's really the only option we have. If The Adversary is thinking about spying on the Mundy world, we better be prepared to give him hell."

"You read too many spy books, Bigby," Snow said with an unsettled laugh as she propped herself up on her elbows and covered her face entirely. "What a nightmare. Before Faith, before The Crooked Man, when was the last Fable you remember murdered?"

"1911," Bigby answered after some thought. "King Cole and Crane..." he paused to gauge Snow's reaction to the mention of Ichabod Crane, to which, fortunately, she had none, "King Cole and Crane traveled to England to check on the Fables that chose to stay back in the Old World so you were left in charge of Fabletown for the very first time."

Snow snorted, recalling the memory. "The _duel_," she muttered exasperatedly. He didn't blame her, it had been a trying time for Snow.

"Grettir challenged Pecos Bill to a duel right on Bullfinch Street. Unfortunately, he thought he could bring an axe to a gunfight and lost. Badly. Flycatcher was cleaning his brains out of the brick of Nod's for days after the fact."

"I saw. I was there, remember? Trying to stop it while _you _held me back," Snow's tone was only mildly accusatory.

Bigby shrugged. "You don't want to get between Bill and a gunfight, Snow."

"Too true," the former princess sighed.

"I'd've paid to see what Grettir thought the moment before Bill ended him," Bigby said, only half-jokingly. The need to know what went through a Fable's mind at death was a secret obsession of his.

Snow ignored the last jibe, and remained serious as she often did: "But even then, the death wasn't so... _evil_. Not like they are _now_. Is this going to keep happening, Bigby? Because I don't know, and every time I look around, I... I can't help but think Fabletown's best days have passed us."

Bigby did the only thing he could, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, hoping she'd draw some fortitude from human touch. Curiously, she didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned into his arm, not quite touching it, but goosebumps arose around his forearms at the slightest hint of touch from her hair.

His previous assumption that Snow would not appreciate human touch appeared to be incorrect.

"I couldn't tell you if it's better or worse than before, Snow. Shit's bad all around," Bigby replied, ignoring the wobbly sensation emanating from his forearm. "But my job is to try and keep it from getting worse. The witches will come up with something, I'm sure, but while we're waiting for them, I'll figure out who iced the cookie. Justified or not, if someone killed Gin and didn't give us the heads-up first, it's a crime, regardless. And, our killer may just know something about this 'Exile' business."

Snow looked up at him and offered a weak smile as a loose curl of hers brushed against his forearm. "Glad to see you're taking law seriously now, Sheriff Wolf?"

"Seriously?" Offered Bigby with something approaching his typically laconic grin as he withdrew his arm. "Nah, I just have some mean double-standards, Snow. There's no room in this town for vigilantism unless it's coming from me."

It was enough to make Snow frown as her heady scent mixed with a sort of agitation, which led Bigby to believe he had sufficiently vexed the woman:

"So, Deputy Mayor White," he mocked the formality with which she referred to him. "Could I grab the keys to the garage? I've got to take a second look at something and mull over the case notes."

Snow shook her head and reached into her desk with a dismissive gesture. The sound of rustling papers and cluttering pens assaulted the air for long moments until a metallic jingle signified she had found the keys:

"Go ahead," she said and slapped them into Bigby's outstretched palm. "These are yours anyway. It's been sitting in this drawer collecting dust for years now."

"Oh, my bad," Bigby apologized insincerely as he stood up and headed over to Boy Blue's desk, where he had left his gray tweed coat. Buttoning it over his chest, Bigby slipped a hand into his pocket and felt for the packet of Huff N'Puffs he had left in it earlier. He slapped the bottom of the carton, which emitted one last cigarette before finally giving up the ghost. "Only one more?" He gritted his teeth.

"It's a bad habit," Snow certainly had a way with the understated. "It'll give you cancer. I can't have a sheriff with cancer."

Bigby merely grinned at Snow and then stepped out the door and back into the night.

* * *

The snowfall had ended, but twilight had brought with it a bone-chilling wind from the North. He remembered the platitudes his mother had given himself and his brothers on those bitingly cold nights back in the homelands, that frigid North Wind meant his father had come to visit his family. Bigby frowned at the thought, and clutched his coat tighter to himself. Human hair was woefully unequipped to handle the cold. It was the reason why men and women always lumbered about in their overlarge coats, but even when wearing them, the warmth a jacket provided paled in comparison to a coat of fur.

Bigby let the cigarette quietly smoke away at the tip, content merely to taste the tobacco rather than smoke it. It provided some semblance of warmth, though not enough to completely stave off the winter wind.

When Bigby reached the shabby door, he let himself inside the garage quietly. It remained the same as it had when Bigby returned from Rochester with Snow and Bluebeard. It wasn't entirely surprising; Fables had very few reasons to ever bother using a car.

_Just because the garage looks the same_, thought Bigby, _doesn't mean there aren't secrets to be told._

He made a beeline straight for King Cole's rarely-used Aston Martin, looking only for one thing. The car looked relatively clean, but parts were a little too pristine for Bigby's liking. The tires and wheel arches were far too clean, even in comparison to the rest of the car. It might be enough to fool the casual passerby, but it wouldn't do for anyone looking very hard.

Few people, however, thought of what was behind the tire, and often, dirt would still be deep into the well of the wheel arch, just before the engine block. Carefully sticking his hand behind the wheel, Bigby smile when he scraped at hard-packed dirt on the other side. With a little work, he freed the dirt and brought it back out in hand.

_Definitely a similar type of dirt to the one we found by Gin's house. And it's too much to be negligible. No one's going to run into that much dirt in Manhattan, and King Cole doesn't strike me as the type to go off-roading._

Bigby reached into a pocket with his free hand and procured his poor excuse for an evidence bag, which was just a school-lunch sandwich bag. Dropping the crusty dirt into it, Bigby stood up and reached for the car door. It opened easily for him, he peered in and found the keys wedged in between driver's-side sun visor and roof.

_King Cole doesn't seem particularly keen on theft-prevention; it could have easily been stolen,_ thought Bigby as he leaned out from the car and pulled out the small notepad he often scribbled thoughts and evidence down on.

"To review," he muttered to himself, "Gingerbread Man is a double agent pretending to give us information on the Empire while communicating with someone named 'Circus'. He's decapitated, likely by someone proficient with swords, who probably commandeered King Cole's car to do it. The only people that know about Gin besides whoever he was talking to are people working in the Business Office."

_Gotta rule out Snow_, Bigby continued with silently, _She'd rather die than choose__ to kill__ a lawbreaker over giving them a fair trial. It might be his car, but King Cole rarely leaves his penthouse, let alone drives. Besides, the King's fighting days are long gone: I don't think he has the skill to take a man's head off like that. The only two that leaves are Boy Blue and Bluebeard..._

Both could have done it. Boy Blue often drove King Cole places whenever the Mayor did finally come out of his Woodlands penthouse, and Snow had revealed earlier that Bluebeard could drive, but he simply had a distaste for it. Many referred to Boy Blue as a swashbuckler from his time in the Homelands and Bluebeard's reputation was one that everyone knew. Both were proficient with swords, though only Bluebeard was considered the 'Master Swordsman'.

Bigby didn't know enough about Boy Blue to gauge whether he'd be the type to kill, but he was certain Bluebeard would.

Similarly, however, there were ample reasons they couldn't have done it. Bluebeard was a sneaky fellow, and would never be so bold as to accompany Snow and Bigby to the scene of his own crime. Alternatively, Boy Blue worked with Snow and lived with Pinocchio, one of whom surely would have noticed the boy missing that day, as it would have taken the Blue somewhere around eleven hours to travel from Manhattan to Rochester and back.

Regardless, he couldn't label a prime suspect or remove either of the two from suspicion, so Bigby would have to keep an eye on them. Without flourish, Bigby turned and headed back for the Woodlands' Business Office.

The line had stretched back nearing the elevator by the time Bigby got back to the Woodlands. Boy Blue was already there directing the disgruntled queuers to either come in or stand back, which would make it difficult for Bigby to obtain what he was looking for. Still, he persevered and slowly walked past the entire line with little more than a careless glance at those he passed by.

Somewhere in the line, he spotted Tweedledee going on three years without his brother and three years with a persistent pain in his side from the knife wound Bigby had caused him. Part of him pitied the thug, but another part didn't care, and was even a bit giddy he had so thoroughly ruined such an odious Fable's life.

Boy Blue scrambled out of his way when Bigby made for the door, allowing the Wolf to barge into the office and interrupt a meeting between Snow and Beauty. Bigby hadn't really endeared himself to either Beauty or Beast during the Crooked Man case due to his insistence on staying out of their marriage problems. But Bigby didn't particularly care, as the perennially squabbling couple hadn't exactly endeared themselves to him either.

Beauty clammed up once he entered. She didn't look outright hostile, but her eyes weren't friendly either.

"Bigby," Snow called out due to Beauty's silence. "Can I help you?"

"That's alright, I just need to have ask Bufkin a question. Just pretend I'm not here," he shuffled off to the back where Bufkin's favorite drinking spots were before Snow could make a reply. Bufkin stood somewhere behind a crate of boxes nearby the hanging knight, looking over dusty tomes, which most assuredly would have been a strange sight just a few years earlier.

"Bufkin," Bigby greeted.

The monkey turned around with a glum expression. "Sheriff Bigby," he said in kind. "Is there anything you need?"

"I need to grab a couple of personnel files," the Sheriff said, "any chance you could get them for me? There's a flask of bourbon in it for you." Bufkin's eyes seemed to widen at the promise of hard liquor. With Crane's departure, it became harder for the monkey to filch any alcohol, and it provided an opportune avenue of bribing for someone like Bigby.

"Absolutely," Bufkin said demurely, "it is, after all, our _duty_ to make your investigation as painless as possible."

"Good," smiled Bigby, "I need you to get me Boy Blue and Bluebeard's files."

"At once, Sheriff!" The flying ape exclaimed and flew off in the direction of the archives.

Bigby waited for a time in that odd corner of the Business Office, wary of intruding on Snow and Beauty's conversation once more. Even still, their soft tones reached his ears, though he deliberately focused on other things to really keep from listening. If he was never privy to anything secret between Beauty and Beast ever again, Bigby would be happy.

Minutes passed. Snow and Beauty spoke, Bigby smoked, and finally Bufkin returned with two thick blue manila folders. "I've found them, Sheriff. Is there... anything else you need?"

"No," said Bigby as they exchanged, "I think that's it for now."

They exchanged stares for a moment, Bufkin's hopeful, Bigby's vaguely amused. Feeling generous, Bigby rolled his eyes, reached into his coat, and pulled out a flask to hand to the monkey. As Bufkin reached for it, Bigby quickly pulled it back out of his reach:

"Don't drink it all on duty, Bufkin," Bigby warned. "I already get enough shit from Snow as it is."

The monkey nodded so enthusiastically Bigby wondered if Bufkin might break his neck. "Yes, yes, I understand Sheriff Bigby."

So Bigby handed off the flask to Bufkin and made his way back into plain view of Snow and Beauty. This time, they remained engrossed in their conversation, seemingly taking to heart the advice of pretending he wasn't there. That suited Bigby just fine as he ghosted out of the office and back into the hallway where Boy Blue stood. Bigby gave the blond boy a curt nod and turned away to head for his office.

In the end, Bigby determined sometime later at his office desk, Boy Blue proved to be as well-known a warrior as Bluebeard, surprising as it was to think of the teen as a swashbuckling warrior. It was apparent, however, that he didn't have the same killer instinct as the former pirate. Bigby slapped his file shut, rubbing his eyes.

Bigby still had questions: If it was Bluebeard that did it, why on earth would he come back to the scene of the crime with Bigby and Snow? Possibly to steal some evidence? No, Bigby had kept an eye on Snow and Bluebeard the entire time they were in the house, he would have noticed if one even attempted to take something. And if it was Boy Blue, wouldn't _someone_ have noticed him missing?

He didn't have long to mull over the questions, as a knock sounded at the door:

"Sheriff?" Boy Blue's voice sounded through the door. "Miss Snow wishes me to tell you to meet her in the basement with Doctor Swineheart."

Bigby quickly opened his drawer and shoved the files into it. "Tell her I'll be there in a minute."

* * *

He met Snow in the basement not too far from the Witching Well, where Swineheart worked on the laughably surreal body of The Gingerbread Man. The Deputy Mayor, unable to conceal her agitation, peaked over the good Doctor's shoulder, much to the elder man's annoyance:

"Miss White, I must ask you to step back," said Swineheart in his usual unflappable tone. "I can't work with you breathing down my neck."

Snow stepped back like a scalded cat. "I'm... I'm sorry, Dr. Swineheart."

"Don't worry about it, dear. I've come to terms that that doing so is a habit of yours," replied the Doctor as Bigby stepped up to the two. "Afternoon, Sheriff Wolf," Swineheart greeted without ever looking up from his work to the basement's newest intruder. Snow jumped slightly, having not heard the wolf slink up to the two, but the famously-icy Snow White had replaced her implacable veneer of apathy in a moment's notice.

Bigby merely raised an eyebrow at Snow, who looked on stubbornly at the Doctor hunched over the body. The Deputy Mayor was being insufferably professional once more, a far cry from their earlier exchange in Business Office, but Bigby didn't have the time to mull over it:

"Have you got anything for us, Doc?"

"Beyond that Gingerbread physiology is nearly nonexistent?" The Doctor replied. "Very few. It's rather difficult to perform an autopsy on someone with no known organs. Still, I did manage to traverse that _gulf_, as it were, and found some things of note."

"And what were those?" The Sheriff asked.

"Well, there was a second wound you missed, of course," said Swineheart as he stepped away from the corpse and indicated a small hole in the torso of the gingerbread corpse. "In your initial report, you only mentioned the one wound at the head, and I don't blame you: the stab wound _was_ hard to find once the glamour dropped."

"Anything important about the wound?" Snow asked the question that had been on the tip of Bigby's tongue. "You wouldn't mention it if it didn't have _something _to do with all this."

The Doctor gave the two a vaguely amused look. "As it happens," he began, "it tells us one _very_ important thing. Sheriff Wolf, in your initial reports, you mentioned that the neck wound was too jagged to have been accomplished by magic. The same jaggedness appears in this one wound, but only on _one side_."

"Meaning?" Bigby asked, crossing his arms with an intrigued look:

"Meaning you can determine the relative size and shape of the sword. And, if I'm right, I believe it _is_ a magic-forged sword." Swineheart said, leaning over the body once more, but allowing both Sheriff and Deputy Mayor ample room for a demonstration. "You see here," he pointed at the stomach wound. "The bottom edge is utterly rended while the top is clean, barely even cut, in fact. So, the weapon that did this is a single-edged blade, but edge of the blade is saw-toothed, perhaps to cause more intense pain in the victim. It coincides with the marking on the neck: one quick slash with jagged teeth all the way across the neck."

Snow gasped.

"But a weapon like that can't kill a person that cleanly," Swineheart continued after casting a passing glance at the Deputy Mayor. "It's not precise or clean, it's meant to be messy and painful—more of a _hacking_ weapon than a slashing one. The teeth simply can't cut something cleanly. You see the problem, here, right?"

Both of his impromptu students got it within moments:

"If it's a hacking weapon, it should take multiple hits to decapitate someone," began Bigby.

"But the killer managed to do it all in one swipe," finished Snow for him. Both Sheriff and Deputy Mayor regarded one another in mutual consternation until Swineheart's light coughing brought the attention back on the third occupant of the room:

"One swipe and 'off with his head'," the good Doctor laughed, which earned a morbid chuckle from Bigby.

In one of his periodic fancies of wanderlust that kicked in every century or so, Bigby left New York on an extended vacation for Europe and found himself in Paris just as the Reign of Terror kicked off. The treatment of their own citizens never endeared the French to Bigby and, sadly, he had fewer and fewer reasons to like them as the years wore on.

Snow, on the other hand, frowned at Swineheart's ribald joke and gave him a stern look that said she wanted him to get to the point:

"Only magic can make a weapon like that cut as clean as it did," replied The Doctor. "Maybe if you consult the Book of Fables, you might find it."

Bigby shrugged at Snow. "Well, there's only one way to find out."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later and the duo discovered that there wasn't much of anything to find out. Beyond the Vorpal Sword and Excalibur, not many pages were dedicated to swords in the Book of Fables, let alone one with the edge of a saw but the slicing power of the most sharpened cutlass.

"Well," sighed Bigby, leaning back in one of the hard-backed chairs opposite Snow's office desk, "this is going nowhere."

"You're right, and I've sacrificed my lunch hour for this," Snow said, disconsolate as she checked her wristwatch, "Fabletown's lost and weary are going to start lining up outside that door again in about five minutes."

"My condolences," Bigby snarked at the Deputy Mayor, who cracked back an equally sarcastic smile:

"You should save them for yourself, Sheriff Wolf," she smirked, "because _you_ are going to be asking the only sword expert we have in the Woodlands." Bigby gave Snow a questioning look. "Bluebeard," she said by way of explanation.

"Yeah, that's not happening Snow," he leaned in and whispered: "You may not be anymore, but Bluebeard is still one of my _suspects_, Snow! I can't just go and ask his help on the case."

The raven-haired beauty, however, would not be deterred. "All the more reason to go, you can use the 'consult' to observe him. Of course, if that makes you wary, you can try and ask King Cole; he knows quite a bit about ancient artifacts and legends."

"The Old Man actually _knows_ something? This is really is a week of firsts," Bigby snorted, verging on incredulous.

Snow frowned at him. "Don't be disrespectful, Sheriff," she admonished mildly. "Now, shoo, I have to lead the community and you have someone to be interviewing."

And with that, Bigby was pushed out into the hallway where several interested Fables waited in line:

"Is it open yet?" One that Bigby didn't recognize asked.

"Yeah," replied the Sheriff as he stalked off. "Go right on in."

* * *

The question rang through Bigby's mind as the elevator started its trek upward: _Do I take the bold route and question the possibly guilty Bluebeard on the Swineheart's sword theory, or stay the course and consult the most likely innocent King Cole and go about gathering evidence quietly?_

Questions, questions.

_Snow suggested Bluebeard first, and... fortune _does_ favor the bold. _He was bold, but Bigby had never thought of himself as being recklessly so. King Cole was certainly the safer option. _But I'm tired and I want this case shut so we can focus on finding out what 'Exile' is. _If he could eliminate Bluebeard from his (admittedly short) list of suspects, then so be it. If he could provide help, wondrous. And if he was the killer, then Bigby would bring him in, no questions asked.

It was with that, that Bigby stopped one floor below King Cole's penthouse and exited for the "nicer" apartment units of The Woodlands. With some sense of deja vu, Bigby walked past elegant white double doors, focusing only on the one with a golden placard over it reading "SNOW WHITE", and the one four doors down reading "BLUEBEARD".

Walking up to it, he knocked.

Bigby had heard the tales surrounding Bluebeard: being one of the few to escape the Homelands with his fortune intact, Bluebeard had somehow managed to fit an entire castle within the small walls of his apartment. Jack of the Tales, ever the talker, had insisted that he threatened to kill two thirteenth floor witches if they didn't do it.

Still, nothing prepared him for the sheer majesty of his antediluvian palace, built like one of Vlad Tepes' fortresses, when the butler opened it. It wasn't hard to imagine that if this place had any windows at all, that stretching to the horizon, there would be little else but long-impaled enemies.

"Ah, Sheriff Wolf," the Butler, a balding man with a thin, pencil moustache, emphasized in a studied Oxfordian accent, "Master Bluebeard had not informed me that we would be receiving guests for lunch."

"He's not," replied Bigby curtly. "I just need to ask him a few questions regarding a case."

The butler cast a searching look over Bigby. "Is Master Bluebeard in any sort of trouble, sir?"

"Well, that'll depend on him, Jeeves. Mind if I come in?"

"Not at all," the man waved him through. "Though my name is _Hobbes_, not _Jeeves_, Sheriff Wolf."

"Right. My bad," said the Sheriff as he stepped through the threshold and into the cavernous entrance room of Bluebeard's science-defying keep. Hobbes walked ahead of him and gestured toward a large wooden door, thrice the size of a man:

"Master Bluebeard receives his guests in the drawing room. Allow me to lead you there, if you please."

Bigby nodded and signaled him forward. "Lead on, Hobbes."

The dignified butler led Bigby through long hallways with vaulted stone ceilings, renaissance paintings, and plush, royal carpets. Alongside the priceless art laid ivory vases over sturdy granite side tables inlaid with gold carvings. After passing a myriad of dimly-lit corridors, Hobbes finally led Bigby into a vault-like chamber. Priceless furniture and artwork ringed the walls as it had in the hallways, all centered around a blazing fireplace on the opposite wall.

"If you would just have a seat here," said Hobbes, pointing to one of the many couches, ottomans, and divans scattered throughout the room, "and I shall inform Master Bluebeard of your arrival."

Nodding, Bigby sat as the Englishman left the chamber. A delicate telephone with a handle carved from ivory stood on an even more expensive-looking table. Bluebeard was indeed a wealthy man.

_Sometimes I think Snow sends me up to these apartments just to prove that I have the shittiest one in The Woodlands_, Bigby thought as he crossed his legs and set to waiting.

Bluebeard enjoyed making Bigby wait, that was one thing the wolf could be assured of. _May as well relax, it'll be a while_, thought Bigby as he leaned back into the plush couch and stared at the mantlepiece above the fireplace where a golden clock and all manner of knick-knacks lay.

But it was what was above it that caught Bigby's eye: a cadre of swords on a rack. One was a french cutlass, another a Japanese blade, another still an English longsword, and above it all: a curved blade with a saw-toothed edge.

Bigby practically rocketed out of his seat and went for the blade, sniffing it. Cleaning solution was the strongest of the amalgam of fumes that assaulted his nostrils, but beyond it, he could smell the false, sweet blood that had come from the Gingerbread Man's glamour.

Reaching up to touch it, Bigby was unprepared for the sharp hiss of pain that surged through his body once he touched the blade. He sprung back like an injured cat, breathing hard.

"It's called Fenrir," said the familiar voice behind him. "Made of pure silver, and coated in Wolfsbane poison specifically designed for wolves and wolf-like creatures."

Bigby whirled around, finding himself face-to-face with Bluebeard, who stared back with a smile. "It passes simply through touch. It would be wise to seek medical attention, Sheriff Wolf."

Pain shot through him, like none he'd ever experienced before save for that night he had been shot with silver. Bigby's growl instantly turned animalistic as he wrenched open his coat and deftly fingered the grip of his handgun, even through the pain.

"There's no need for that," said Bluebeard, "I have no intention of resisting."

The Butler, Hobbes, who had appeared behind Bigby gave him a disdainful look. "Now, see here, Sheriff Wolf. If you put down the gun, we can all go down to the Business Office and you can get medical attention."

"_The hell I am_!" Growled Bigby as a fresh searing sensation speared from his toes to his head. "He killed that Fable and he poisoned me. You wanna go down to the Business Office, you're going at the barrel of a gun. No compromises."

"Yes," said Bluebeard. "I did kill him, but I assure you there was a good reason for it, as you know."

Bigby flicked back the safety. "Save it for Snow, I don't give a shit."

"Wait Hobbes, no!" Bluebeard shouted as a strange stretching sound came up from behind Bigby. He turned around in time to catch a meaty fist to the face and stood up several seconds later, dazed, from a crumpled heap amid overturned tables and couches on the other side of the chamber.

Standing by the too-surprised-to-do-anything Bluebeard was a grown, ugly goblin with skin like leather, rotted teeth, and beady eyes. And he stood at a modest eight feet tall. The poison was spreading quickly, and Bigby found himself growing lethargic as the searing pain became a numbing ache. Belatedly, Bigby realized the AutoMag lay on the floor nearby the goblin, who was rearing up for a second attack which seemed to begin with a tackle.

The impact was soft and weightless; Bigby didn't feel pain even as his head smacked into the wall and the goblin delivered two hefty haymakers to either side of his torso. Large hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed, squeezed until black ringed the edges of Bigby's vision. He had come close to experiencing death once before, and it had been terrifying, trapped in that river, held down by the stones in his stomach. Now, however, Bigby wondered what he had been so afraid of. Death wasn't frightening; it was rather pleasant, actually.

But then he looked down into the goblin's eyes and felt _rage_. Absolute, undying _rage_ that such a paltry, ugly creature would be the one to end him. And a voice rose from Bigby's subconscious, one that was not his own:

_I AM A HUNTER. AND I AM UNYIELDING._

The world moved in slow motion, in exploding technicolor as two claws attached at his arm stabbed into the pitiful creatures eyes. Screaming in pain, it staggered back as The Wolf fell to the ground, growling and testing his weakened throat. He slashed twice with those claws at the creature's stomach and delivered a meaty punch to the liver. He knocked the knees of the creature, palm-stuck it's throat, and finally landed a sharp, cracking blow on the monster's jaw. Howling, the goblin fell to ground and The Wolf went to ground as well with a tight grip round the hated enemy's throat and squeezed, squeezed until he was sure black ringed the edges of the ugly, foul being's vision. And then, he squeezed some more until the heavy body grew lax and limp against him.

The Wolf then spotted the weapon he confessed he had grown attached to not three paces from where he had first been attacked.

The blue-bearded meat noticed it, too, and lunged for the firearm, but The Wolf was far faster than even the fastest man and the weapon was in his hands. The human said something about putting the weapon down and talking, but The Wolf would not listen and had no intention of speaking, so he pulled down the safety trigger once more.

A whiff of something caught his attention, a soft, flowery scent emanating from his forearm, the faint essence of a woman he had nearly forgotten in his frenzied state. It was the one smell Bigby could never forget; the one smell he both never wanted to forget, and desperately hoped he'd never remember. Snow White, snow bright, a drug more potent than opiates, more pleasurable than the illusive and hallucinatory dreams of an acid-tripper.

He felt control return to him.

But, seeing that the Sheriff only meant him harm, Bluebeard charged, and Bigby, in a state of half-delirium and half-panic, fired. The AutoMag may have been a handgun, but when modified and given to the right man, it had the stopping power of a short-ranged shotgun at medium range. In hindsight, it wasn't so surprising, then, that the bullet ripped and shredded through Bluebeard's stomach.

The once-dreaded pirate still soldiered on, however, nearly crashing into the Sheriff, who fired twice more and caught Bluebeard within inches of his last shot. It was an odd sight, to see Bluebeard simply stop his sprint and crumple into an undignified heap of blood and velvet robes.

An enraged roar from his side startled Bigby from his sluggish state, and he whirled to see the goblin howl at the sight of the bloodied Bluebeard. _How? _Thought Bigby only for a moment as the creature lunged forward and crushed the Sheriff against the brick and mortar of the fireplace and grasped the Sheriff's head, crushing inwards in hopes of doing the same to Bigby's head. Fortunately, Bigby retained the gun this time and fired twice center mass. It was enough to make Hobbes the friendly glamoured goblin lurch away in pain. But, he was soon staggering back toward the Sheriff.

If he remembered correctly, he only had two bullets left in his magazine, so he had to make them count. Aiming slowly, no small task with his vision swimming in and out of focus, he shot once at the chest of the advancing thug to no avail, the bullet merely passed through, but the goblin was undeterred. Hobbes, clearly as injured as Bluebeard and himself came within one step of the handgun when Bigby emptied his last round, a fat bullet that sailed right into his forehead and out with a satisfying squelch. The back wall erupted in blood, and small bits of brain, but Bigby couldn't bring himself much to care as Hobbes' head snapped back and he fell back-first onto the ground, his dark blood mixing with Bluebeard's lighter blood.

Faintly remembering he had seen an ivory-handled telephone in the room, Bigby limped over to an expensive-looking overturned table and found the fancy phone overturned below. As he picked up the phone and began dialing, any last pain melted into an all-consuming need for sleep.

The telephone rang. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Business Office, Deputy Mayor Snow White speaking," her soft voice registered on the other side, and it was almost enough to make the near-catatonic Sheriff smile:

"Snow?" He began sluggishly. "I need... I need... I need Dr. Swineheart at... at Bluebeard's in... soon."

"Wait, Bigby?" Her tone sounded incredulous. "Swineheart? Bluebeard's? What happened?"

"Bluebeard killed the cookie," he held out a bit longer, the faintest tinkling of annoyance at Snow's naturally inquisitive nature bubbling up over the powerful need to _let go_ of consciousness. "Got into a... a spat with him up here. He and his Butler are bleeding out, and I... well... I've been poisoned with Wolfsbane. I'll probably be dead... if you're not here in five... five minutes." Somehow, he had managed to sound distinctly amused at the last.

"Jesus, what!? Bigby!" Snow exclaimed but the wolf had let the phone slip from his hand, and it landed with a crash as he himself slumped to the ground.

Somehow he could hear Snow's voice over the line: "Stay with me Bigby! I'm getting Swineheart now."

But he was so, so _tired_.

Calm. Utter calm stole through him. He wondered if this is what Grettir felt like the moment before splattered his brains across Bullfinch Street. Dying wasn't so bad. What had he been so afraid of?

What had he been so afraid of? Dying was the easiest thing in the world. All he needed to do was let go.

_You, uh, you stopped breathing... you know... when you passed out or... or died, I guess. It, um... it kind of scared the hell out of me._

He was once a hunter. And yielding was so easy now.

So he let go.

And the world went dark.

**To be continued in Episode 2:  
"The Wicked Messenger"  
**

* * *

Next time on The Wolf Among Us:

If there was one thing he hated more than silver, it was the sound of Bloody Mary's childlike laugh. And how she guffawed: "The Big Bad Wolf," she snickered, honey brown eyes wide open and slasher smile fully extended, "brought to heel by a _goblin_. You'll have to forgive me, it's just _too fucking hilarious_!"

-/-/-/-/-

Snow eyed Boy Blue with something suspiciously approaching a matronly look. "They tell me you were a swashbuckling hero back in the Homelands." She could tell her assistant was used to their previously only-professional relationship and blushed faintly at the title:

"I was hardly a hero and _barely_ even swashbuckling," he answered with surprising truthfulness. "The only reason I'm in Fabletown was because I was forced to leave the fight."

"Still, you must have seen some grievous wounds during your time as a soldier," Snow countered softly. "I know you wouldn't consider yourself an expert. but do you think any of them will make it?"

Boy Blue mulled over the thought. "Well, Bluebeard's got it the best of them all," he mused. "He'll be okay, if no one else. Swineheart may even be able to save his goblin butler, too. Sheriff Wolf, on the other hand. Well, we fought werewolves once and used wolfsbane on them. Let's just say it's quite a feat in and of itself Sheriff Wolf managed to stay conscious long enough to take out both Bluebeard and his... pet."

Snow chewed her lip nervously. What a shame that would be, the criminal surviving and the Sheriff passing. _God's irony, or maybe the Devil's_, she thought privately.

* * *

**A/N**: If any of you have read the comics, I'm pretty sure you know how this fight turns out in canon, but don't spoil it for the others. So, Bigby finds the killer, who insists he has a _good reason_, but I guess spying is a pretty good reason, and our intrepid hero gets poisoned. Wait til next episode to find out what happens next!

Chapter Notes:

The thing Snow mentions about visiting King Cole was an emulation of one of the key 'decisions' you can make as you did in Season 1 (e.g. capturing the Woodsman or Tweedledee in Episode 1; Crane's Apartment, The Trip Trap, or The Tweedles Office in Episode 3; or even Deli/Pawn Shop in Episode 4). If Bigby had gone to the Mayor, he would have found out about the wolfsbane and poison on the sword and he may not have been poisoned at Bluebeard's resulting in a much more tame arrest.

Remember, while this is listed as Bigby/Snow, this is **_still _**Fables-compliant. Since the two don't get together until the comics, don't expect too much hanky-panky beyond the two beyond the odd glance or touch.

King Cole's car and the garage wasn't a red herring, they'll back in the next episode.

I didn't get to Cindy this chapter, so she's been pushed back into the next episode.

"You, uh, you stopped breathing..." is from Snow and Bigby's little moment in his apartment in Episode 4 that Colin cockblocks.

Thanks for reading, and send me a review if it pleases you,  
Geist.


	4. Ep 2: The Wicked Messenger, Prologue

Summary: Post-TWAU Season 1 and Pre-Fables. Three years after the Crooked Man incident, things have returned to something resembling normalcy in Fabletown. Glamours are still overpriced, Snow White is still laden with demands of a restless public (even with help from the newly appointed Boy Blue), and Bigby Wolf still smokes like a Bristol chimney. Frustrated by a lack of action, Bigby gets his wish for more chaos when Fabletown comes to him with a case only he can solve.

Disclaimer: The Wolf Among Us and Fables belong to Telltale Games, Bill Willingham, Vertigo, DC, and a whole host of other people and factions that I simply am nowhere near cool or talented enough to be a part of.

* * *

**The Wolf Among Us  
**Season 2: A Wolf at the Door

**Episode 2:** "The Wicked Messenger"  
**Prologue:** "Enter the Void"

* * *

"Memory is an interesting thing, isn't it?" Her bubbly, child-like voice brought him back from the darkness. "It hides away from us, scurrying into the little niches and the fissures of our mind. And we go _years_ without thinking anything of them until, suddenly, something dreadful happens one day and here we are, _living the dream_."

He groaned, it was the only thing he could do. He heard the spinning of a revolver's cylinder, and a satisfying click. Heavy boots on light feet clicked their way to him and stopped just above. Too weak to open his eyes, too tired to care, Bigby merely rolled his head to the side, away from her.

She had never been the type to give up easily, however. The boots moved once more, one nudged him softly in the side, and the other, after a slight delay, landed on the other flank. She stood proudly, he knew, it was the only way she ever stood. Wide-stanced and smug, she towered over him like a Colossus and smiled like Nero on Rome's burning day.

He heard her dropping low before he felt the light weight of her posterior plant on his hips, just above the groin. It was enough to confuse him; he remembered her as violent and mercurial, but never lurid or even remotely capable of seduction. And yet here she was, leaning close enough that he could sense her hot breath on his earlobe:

"It feels familiar, doesn't it, Bigby?" She intoned before pulling away from his face with a mad cackle, a cackle that reminded him just who she was and the danger she presented.

Bigby's eyes opened, met by the only pair of eyes he had ever seen more feral than his own. A deep rumble of not-entirely-surprise disappointment sounded from the pit of his stomach upward. If there was one thing he hated more than silver, it was the sound of Bloody Mary's childlike laugh. And how she guffawed:

"The Big Bad Wolf," she snickered, honey brown eyes wide open and slasher smile fully extended, "brought to heel by a _goblin_. You'll have to forgive me, it's just _too fucking hilarious_!"

"Yeah, hilarious," muttered Bigby, slowly taking in his surroundings. He was in his crappy apartment, feeling curiously uninjured. More curious than that, however, was the sight of a dead enemy straddling him. "I don't have the greatest memory, but I'm pretty damned sure I killed you."

Mary snickered as she planted her bottom on his waist once more: "You have a knack for stating the obvious, Wolfie. You remember that _I'm_ dead. It's just a shame for your memory that you can't tell when you are."

Suddenly, he remembered. He remembered Snow's suggestion to either visit Bluebeard or King Cole. He remembered entering Bluebeard's apartment, finding the sword, and being poisoned by it. He remembered emptying a clip into Bluebeard and his goblin henchman. Last of all, he remembered the call and Snow's worried voice on the other end of the line:

"So I'm dead then? Not what I expected, I'll tell you that much," Bigby remarked, retaining the stoic facade he had spent a millenia crafting.

"Well, shit. You're taking this a hell of a lot better than I did, I can tell you that," Mary mused. "But, to answer your question, Bigby, you aren't dead. You're dreaming, I guess, but you're not dead. Not yet, at least. And I'm not really here, thankfully, your apartment is _shit_. But, you know, if you _do_ end up kicking it, I look forward to spending eternity with you in the ol' oven roaster downstairs. It'll be like marriage, except less retarded."

"I'm flattered," drawled Bigby, "but what makes you think I'll be spending eternity in hell?"

"You don't think you will?" Laughed Bloody Mary with that infuriating laugh of hers. "Shit, Bigby, you really think just because you've put on sheep's clothing and started going vegan that you've changed anything? You know, I had you pegged for a lot of things, but naïve was not one of them."

Bigby raised an eyebrow and little else.

"You're a bad boy, Wolfie. The naughtiest kind. No cloud kingdom for you," she leaned in close again, this phantom of a vanquished foe, and captured his ear softly between her teeth. "Isn't it _hot_?"

Then and there, Bigby Wolf decided this was the most terrifying dream he ever had.

* * *

Bigby grunted for the third time in a minute, and each grunt seemed more annoyed than the last, as though he were insulted at the very thought of dying by poison. Swineheart insisted it was nothing, but it certainly felt like _something_.

But, for now, the good was focused on keeping Bigby alive and Deputy Mayor Snow White was forced to watch on the sidelines. And by 'sidelines', Swineheart meant as far away from the good doctor as possible, which actually meant the other side of Bluebeard's plush bedroom.

Snow eyed Boy Blue, who sat beside her at a table laden with magical artifacts, with something suspiciously approaching a matronly look. "They tell me you were a swashbuckling hero back in the Homelands." She could tell her assistant was used to their previously only-professional relationship when he blushed faintly at the title:

"I was hardly a hero and _barely_ even swashbuckling," he answered with surprising truthfulness. "The only reason I'm in Fabletown was because I was forced to leave the fight."

"Still, you must have seen some grievous wounds during your time as a soldier," Snow countered softly. "I know you wouldn't consider yourself an expert. but do you think any of them will make it?"

Boy Blue mulled over the thought. "Well, Bluebeard's got it the best of them all," he mused. "He'll be okay, if no one else is. Swineheart may even be able to save his goblin butler, too. Sheriff Wolf, on the other hand. Well, we fought werewolves once and used wolfsbane on them. Let's just say it's quite a feat in and of itself Sheriff Wolf managed to stay conscious long enough to take out both Bluebeard and his... pet."

Snow chewed her lip nervously. What a shame that would be, the criminal surviving and the Sheriff passing. It had certainly happened often enough that the worry burrowed deep into her soul.

_God's irony, or maybe the Devil's_, she thought privately.

Bigby had vexed Snow in more ways than one over these past centuries. And that was an understatement: He was brash, impulsive, insubordinate, prone to violence, and his willingness to compromise the law in favor of street justice frightened her. And yet, at the same time, the Wolf was smart, loyal to what few friends he had, surprisingly good with children, willing to speak his mind, and a damn good detective.

Where he had been apathetic before Faith, Bigby's experience with her, The Crooked Man, and the destruction Crane's regime had wrought turned him into an active defender of the lost and disenfranchised Fables of New York, though still hard and grim, merciless as the stories that surrounded him. Perhaps he was demon, but he was a demon that protected them. To the lower class, to the ones that never made it to the front of the line to the Business Office, Bigby Wolf was more folk hero than villain.

It would be a huge loss for Fabletown if he died.

That wasn't to say all wouldn't cheer his death, however. Working in the Woodlands and championing the proletariat wasn't exactly a feasible career move. Snow had been assaulted for months after the... _unconventional_ handling of The Crooked Man case with questions of Bigby's suitability to continue as Sheriff from the bourgeois Fables of the Woodlands. Bluebeard had been among the first of those railing against him, and soon, others such as Beast (whose problem with Bigby seemed more personal than professional, if Snow were to guess), Pinocchio, and even King Cole followed suit. Snow had reservations about the Sheriff herself, but she would never hear a word against him: Bigby had promised to do better for Fabletown, and while he was doing it _his_ way, he was still _doing it_. He was a bastard, but he was her bastard. Shocking as it was, Snow wouldn't exchange Bigby for the world.

And that surprised her more than anything else.

* * *

Mary lifted off of him with a grin. "So, Bigby Wolf. What are you gonna do to get out of here?" She offered a hand to help up the Sheriff, a hand which Bigby promptly ignored and stood up slowly and with a pained wheeze of exertion. "How rude. You don't have to scorn all help, you know? It's a pretty tired fucking act, Wolf."

Bigby didn't answer, and Mary was unimpressed by the silent treatment:

"You really like that, don't you?" She asked, leaning in and stroking her index finger down permanent stubble of Sheriff's cheek. "Brooding. Silent. Piercing stare. I'll bet you think the Mundies get _wet_ for you."

"Do they?" Bigby quipped with a touch of whimsy.

"How the hell would I know?" the Urban Legend stressed as she carelessly examined her nails, "I'm a _fighter_, not a _lover_." She paused. "But that's not why we're here. We're here to get you back out there." She pointed somewhere in the thick void, and suddenly, like the flash of a floodlight, a great whirlwind blew aside a swath of the darkness and Bigby saw the outline of Dr. Swineheart's face over him. He looked tired, more tired than he ever had before.

Swineheart pulled back to mop away the sheen of sweat that glistened at his forehead. Just behind him, he could see Snow and Boy Blue sitting at a table, conversing about something. The assistant appeared neutral, detached, a far cry from the comparatively frightened and worried Snow.

"Aww," Mary cooed into Bigby's ear, "Snow White's worried about the _Big Bad Wolf_! I _love _young love! It's just so satisfying to _snuff out_. But never mind that, let's get moving Wolf."

"Where? And why would I go with you?" The Wolf asked, turning to the ultraviolent femme fatale, only to stare down the barrel of a revolver:

"Because if you don't, I shoot you, and you die. Poof. All that, gone. Think of what that would do to _poor Snow_!" Mary exclaimed. Bigby couldn't stop the growl as he stepped toward the woman, who pull back the hammer: "Ah, ah, ah, Wolfie. Silver. And this time, I'll hit your heart and then it's bye-bye. Are we done? Yes? Good? I'll answer your first question now: you want to know where it is we're going?"

Bigby nodded.

"The only place we can: _hell_," said Mary with her trademarked grin. "Time to meet the devil, Bigby."

* * *

"Bluebeard is showing signs of improvement, Miss White," said Swineheart in typical fashion, "his Butler, Hobbes, has stabilized too, but he may have suffered some brain damage from the Sheriff's gun, but we won't know for sure until he's a awake."

Snow didn't care about the other two. "And the Sheriff?"

"Touch and go, Miss White," replied the Doctor, "I've extracted as much the poison from his system as I could, but it... well, he's not responding. Wolfsbane is a hallucinogenic poison with a nasty type of magic attached to it, and it isn't uncommon for wolves to die even after having most, if not all of the poison extracted. It's a _powerful_ killer."

Snow sagged in her chair, she couldn't believe what she was hearing. _How_!? Bigby had the poison extracted and somehow it _still_ might kill him?

"Well, w...what do we do?"

"_You_ do nothing," replied Swineheart as he strode for the door to the rest of Bluebeard's castle-like apartment. "_I_ will go and fetch Frau Totenkinder from the thirteenth floor to see if we can't find an adequate counterspell."

That struck Snow tenderly. "I can't just... sit here and do _nothing_, Doctor!" She exclaimed, losing a hold of her propriety and rocketing out of her chair, surprising even Boy Blue, who looked at her as she had gone mad. Swineheart stood paused in the doorway. He looked left, then right, and then made to face her.

When Swineheart turned, his expression was the gravest snow had ever seen on him. "Then pray, Deputy Mayor."

* * *

The void never seemed to disappate, and the image of Snow, Swineheart, and Boy Blue seemed to get father with every step the Sheriff and his one-time arch nemesis took. The only thing that permeated the stillness were voices. Not the voices of Snow, The Doctor, or her assistant, but voices from Bigby's past, half-forgotten memories piercing at the otherwise impenetrable blackness:

His mother's soft, dulcet voice, telling him stories about his father.

Being unable to protect her body and venturing to the North Wind's castle for vengeance, only to be rebuffed seven times by his wayward father.

Vowing to eat something bigger every day until he could fight his father and win, for once. And with that, the screams of hundreds, thousands of voices melded into one.

_"Why?"_ Snow White's sweet voice stopped him in his tracks, _"Why are you helping us?"_

_And he was back in the Homelands on a hot summer day, sniffing out the most delicious-smelling being he had ever seen from one of the Adversary's chaingangs. Her scent, masked it was by sweat and grime was too perfect to simply let die. Spurred on as if compelled, Bigby had ripped through goblins, traitorous humans, and one or two wooden men to get to the slave camp where the scent emanated from just for a stronger whiff of her essence._

_Bigby was surprised to find the spice radiated, not from a she-wolf as he had expected, but a dark-haired human woman in a ripped, muddied gown with eyes like icebergs. There was so much distrust in those blues, so much pain in something so small, so slight, so fair._

_Humans had always been little else than food to Bigby, but this one woman gave him such pause and it frightened him, how much power this one woman could have over him. So he attempted remain detached when the woman posed the question:_

_"Why are you helping us?" She asked, once the initial threat of goblins were dealt with._

_"My reasons are my own," he had replied cryptically. "Gather whomever you will, we must make haste. The Adversary's lackeys are not long put down."_

_He found it remarkable that this woman so quickly rose to the task, ordering Fables she barely knew behind the Wolf. More surprisingly still was that the Fables listened to her. She was a leader, and the wonders didn't cease there. He had expected to come to the rescue of a she-wolf, and when he found a human, he had expected a hopeless waif of a damsel. Snow White, Bigby found, couldn't be further from that. Although not an overly-skilled killer, Miss White was a capable fighter, and even managed to down some goblins before Bigby could reach them with his large and lumbering size._

_Snow impressed The Wolf that day, and in the long years since then, Bigby had been an enslaved admirer of her strength of character, of her zealous idealism, her cold beauty, and deft grace._

"Go on through, it's time to enter the void," Mary's mocking tone brought Bigby back to the present. Bigby looked up, and when he did, the void opened up before him and his threadbare apartment greeted him. The Sheriff looked back at his nemesis, who merely grinned at him: "Oh, Bigby, did you really think I was going to stick around? I'm flattered, really! But I'm just not that into you."

With that, Mary, or whatever was taking Mary's form, shoved Bigby hard through the void and into his living room.

* * *

It smelled like home: rotted, mossy hardwood that reminded Bigby of the dense forests of Europe, his lone chair by a cheap TV in an even cheaper living room. But something was off. The angles were off, colors were drained and desaturated, and somewhere, Bigby could hear faint static and scratchy music from an old phonograph record.

Had he awoken? Was all that with Mary just some strange dream? Where was Snow? And Swineheart? Where was Bluebeard and Hobbes? They wouldn't just dump him back in his apartment when they fixed him up.

Bigby looked out the lone window of his room and found only an interminable fog rolling in from the Atlantic through Bullfinch street, obscuring a moonless night sky. The phonograph record continued playing an old tune, but the Wolf couldn't tell where it was coming from.

"Did I ever even own a phonograph?" Bigby mused to himself and reached into his pocket, where his trusty pack of Huff-N-Puffs often laid. Withdrawing his hand, the Sheriff only found a crumpled pack that must have been destroyed during the fight with Bluebeard. "Empty," he growled and grimaced.

A knock came at his door.

"I don't ever get a night's rest, do I?" The Sheriff asked himself wearily as he crumpled the remainder of his cigarette pack and tossed it haphazardly into a corner of his flat, by the television set. The knocking became more insistent; Snow always impatient. "Yeah, yeah, I got it..." he opened the door with an exasperated look that turned into one of complete surprise, "Mary?"

The woman standing before him was Bloody Mary and wasn't her at the same time. Gone was the leather jacket and biker boots, replaced by a tight, white button down and a knee-length black skirt. Her amber eyes were softer than the serial killer he had met, her hair longer, to the shoulder, with hints of red highlights, and her smile, oh her smile... it was earnest, it was demure, it was hopeful, all the words in the world Bigby would never associate with her.

"Expecting someone else, Sheriff?" She asked with that shy half-grin.

"No..." Bigby began, quite confused. He had been about to meet someone, but he couldn't remember. "Should I be?"

"That depends. Though I doubt you'll get any visitors, nobody's going to brave the fog coming in from the Lake. The Mayor and I need you down at the Witching Well. There's been an... incident," Mary said, as if this was a normal interaction between the two. She started walking off, leaving the utterly baffled Sheriff behind. "Well, Bigby?" She asked without turning. "Are you coming?"

_What's Mary doing here, what about...?_

"Snow?" Bigby asked, realizing he'd said the last word aloud.

Mary spun around. "Snow? As in, Snow White?"

Swallowing thickly, Bigby nodded.

"Oh, dear," the other Fable remarked with what appeared to be true sympathy. "Fifty years on and you still ask about her every day. I have no earthly idea what possessed Snow to leave you for that awful Prince Charming. You should let it go, Bigby. You're too good for her."

_What? Fifty years? Snow leaving me? We were never together. And leaving me for Charming? They divorced before we even left the Homelands!_

"You should ask Cindy out on a date," Mary yammered on, unmindful of her companion's confusion and turmoil, "she really likes you, Sheriff."

"Fifty years?" Bigby muttered to himself, ignoring Mary's words as he tried vainly to settle his thoughts. "M... Mary? what's the date?"

"December 12th," Mary replied as they turned the corner of the hall to the elevator. Bigby's once-enemy punched the down button for the elevator and turned to him with a questioning frown on her lips as he struggled to comprehend what was going on.

_It was October when I was poisoned. And Mary is dead, and she's definitely not working for Fabletown!_

"Year?" He asked again.

This time, Mary's look turned slightly suspicious. She paused and looked deeply into his eyes, placing a small hand on his arm. "Bigby, are you sure you're okay?"

"I will be when you tell me the year," Bigby growled lowly, uncomfortable with this degree of strangeness. The other Fable withdrew from him, her look turned more concerned by the second:

"It's... 1958, Bigby. Same as it was yesterday, same as it's been all year."

_What the hell?_

* * *

**A/N: **Here's where things get alot of fun. I know you have questions about the last part, but, unfortunately, you'll have to wait. 'The Void', the blackness Bigby's entrenched in will take about half of episode 2 (which will be longer than Episode 1), and will makes constant reprises as the Season goes on. Exactly what it is (whether just a hallucination from the Wolfsbane, or something more sinister), who is behind it, and what it means is something that'll have to be made clear in the story and not in the chapter notes. We also get an insight into how Snow feels about Bigby, how Bigby feels about Snow, and where Fabletown's consensus is on the Sheriff. Next chapter, we won't have much Snow, or, at least much of Deputy Mayor Snow White. We might, however, find ourselves a different Snow, and not even the one that ran off with Prince Charming.

Chapter Notes:

Mary's kind of a hard character to write, because she has to be playful and childlike, yet sadistically so. Hopefully I got her character down well.

There won't be much of Snow's POV in the rest of the episode (or in the rest of the season, for that matter), so I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted.

*Remember, this Bigby killed The Crooked Man before he could get to trial, which is probably (objectively speaking, the worst thing you can do for the Woodlands Fables, probably even more so than ripping his head off, while the poorer Fables are more likely to throw in their support for Bigby), so there's a good precedent as to why none of the "rich" Fables are too pleased with the Sheriff at the moment.

1958's a special year; it's the perfect era for me (at the tail end of the age of conformity) to engage in my love for pulpy 50's noir and Mad Men.

**Enter the Void** is a fantastically trippy 2009 Gaspar Noé film about death, sex, drugs, and the possibility of reincarnation. If you're into art films and aren't too put off by a long runtime and egregious over-sexualization, it's worth a watch. The Void itself is the space between dying and death, which is sort of where Bigby is at the moment, so I thought it was an apt title.

To answer a request from reviewer **KMSaum**, I'm not the most adept writer at facial expressions and minute environmental detail (I'm told I do dialogue best), but I'll try my absolute hardest to improve on them in the coming chapters!

Thanks for reading, send a review my way if you can.  
Geist.


End file.
